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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068367">Atalanta (an argonautica)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinis/pseuds/Cinis'>Cinis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Bibliotheca - Pseudo-Apollodorus, Medea - Euripides</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, Gen, but there are zero centaurs in this fic, canon-typical warnings apply, don't ask me where these characters are i can't tell you, gender and sexuality are spectrums</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:14:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinis/pseuds/Cinis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Medea brings away nothing in her exile, save her brother’s limbs.</p>
<p>Atalanta wants to be a bear.</p>
<p>Not all tragedies are the work of the gods.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Atalanta &amp; Artemis, Atalanta/Medea, Atalanta/Meleager (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore), Jason/Medea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Atalanta (an argonautica)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In grief, Atalanta dedicates the golden boar to Artemis.</p>
<p>She does it on a dusty hill outside the city because the city is awash in grief and her Lady is not a goddess who oversees funerals. It is not for the divine to gaze upon the dead.</p>
<p>Even when it’s by their will that men <em>burn</em>.</p>
<p>It takes four farmhands to drag the carcass of the beast up to Atalanta’s makeshift altar. When they’ve heaved it onto the low stone cairn Atalanta has raised, she pays them with a handful of oboloi and sends them away. They grumble that they’ve been begrudged the rich meat of sacrifice. Stone-faced, Atalanta ignores them. How many good men have gone to Hades now, contending for their pound of sacred flesh?</p>
<p>In the distance, the sun is setting, casting the world below blood-red. Above the setting sun, the almost-full moon rises, dim in comparison to her brother, but growing in brilliance as she ascends to her turn in the sky. Warmth suffuses the evening air. A steady breeze blows from the north. Smelling of earth and leaves, it catches Atalanta’s dark brown hair and tries, unsuccessfully, to pull it free from its tie.</p>
<p>The boar should have been dedicated to the Lady where it fell, but Meleager, thinking he had the right to do with it as he pleased, declared it for Atalanta instead.</p>
<p>Atalanta, whom he said he loved.</p>
<p>Such was not his right. The boar was always of Artemis, and thus it could only ever go to Artemis.</p>
<p>For his offense, he paid with his life. Flames sprung up from inside him, licking at his skin, turning it black like a log in a fire.</p>
<p>Atalanta pushes back the memory of the impiety.</p>
<p>And she pushes back the memory of the sorrows that followed.</p>
<p>And she pushes back—</p>
<p>But Meleager’s screams still echo in her head.</p>
<p>Alone on the hilltop, Atalanta stands over the boar on the altar.</p>
<p>“Artemis,” Atalanta begins, voice low and soft. Her hands dangle limp at her sides. She doesn’t shout like a common priest in the agora. Out here beyond the city, Artemis is with her. Artemis is listening. “Lady of bears and deer, have pity on this city. Forgive them. I dedicate this prize of our hunt to you.”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s words linger in the air, then fade.</p>
<p>She bends down and takes up her spear and her bow. She turns away from the altar and heads south. She’s going, she thinks, back to Arcadia. Back to where she belongs. Away from cities and kings and <em>men</em>. She leaves the boar for whatever beasts the goddess chooses to claim it.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>She takes passage on a merchant’s ship headed from Chalkis towards Corinth. A few sailors sign against ill fortune when they see a woman board the vessel, but Atalanta’s money—everything she has left—is good, so the captain barks for his men to get back to work. The days are too lean to turn a paying passenger away.</p>
<p>The sailors turn from worrying about Atalanta to idle gossip.</p>
<p>Some son of Zeus has slain a lion with his bare hands. King Oeneus, master of Calydon so recently bereaved, already has plans to remarry. Off in Thessaly, a shipwright is cutting trees from Mt. Pelion to build—as he hails it—the mightiest ship the world has ever seen, that will cleave the windy waters like no other.</p>
<p>Atalanta tunes the gossip out.</p>
<p>It’s not a long voyage, and the seas are calm.</p>
<p>It’s just long enough for her to miss the feel of an arm slung around her shoulders to ward off the chill sea air at night. She keeps vigil from dusk to dawn, and when dawn comes, her cheeks are wet with salty dew. A flick of her wrist erases the moisture, reducing it to less than memory.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>At the docks near Corinth, no one greets her. And why would anyone? No one greets her; she is no one. She takes her weapons and her pack and jumps from the ship’s deck down to the pier even before the longshoremen have finished tying the lines. It feels good to be back on solid ground. She’s a creature of the mountains, not the seas.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes her time with the trek from Corinth up into the summer hills of Arcadia. She lives off the land and avoids other travelers, staying to hunters’ trails and sometimes venturing off beaten paths entirely. She thinks she sees armies marching in the distance from time to time, but she ignores them. For a while she walks with a small family of wolves, but only for so long as she’s near their den. She’s going farther than their range. The oldest female gives her hand a lick, and then the clan returns home.</p>
<p>Home.</p>
<p>Atalanta is headed for a mountainside cave buried deep in the Menalon range.</p>
<p>When she was born in the palace of Tegea, the midwife declared her as healthy as a boy. Her father Iasus wasn’t one for metaphors. He ordered her feet bound and had a slave leave her in the forest. An easy death—for him.</p>
<p>But the forest was sacred to Artemis, protector of children.</p>
<p>A she-bear found her and named her. <em>Atalanta</em>. Equal, the bear hoped, one day, to her new mother, though the cub was small and oddly shaped.</p>
<p>That was near to thirty years over.</p>
<p>Atalanta grew up to have long limbs, very little fur, and a preference for running on two feet. More like a nymph than a proper bear. The bear loved her anyway.</p>
<p>But the bear passed quietly some time ago and the home Atalanta returns to is empty. She sets down her things and sits, leaning her back against the stony wall of her den. She closes her eyes, dozes off. She is tired and it’s good to be home.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When Atalanta wakes, twilight has fallen. Stiff, she stretches. She yawns too. A big bear yawn. It used to make her mother proud.</p>
<p>Atalanta isn’t hungry, but she will be soon. She takes up her weapons again and stalks towards the mouth of the cave.</p>
<p>When she steps up from the earth, she’s not alone.</p>
<p>The woman waiting outside stands a good head taller than Atalanta. In the late evening gloom, her dark olive skin shimmers with a soft white light, the same light as her moon. Carrying a bow at her side and wearing a tunic drawn up short, Artemis could never be mistaken as anything but herself. She wears her ebony hair braided and pinned close to her head, further secured by a lunate crown. A thick back and strongly muscled arms hint at the power she is.</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t bow. Bowing, like groveling, is a custom of the cities. They are not in a city. She stands straight and she looks up at her Lady.</p>
<p>“It is a night good for a hunt,” Artemis says. Though Atalanta is looking at Artemis, Artemis is looking out into the forest below the den. Her forest.</p>
<p>Dryly, Atalanta replies, “It is a night.”</p>
<p>Artemis turns her head to look down at Atalanta. Her eyes are an unnerving liquid silver, blank except for their light. “You loved him,” she says. She says it bluntly, neither an accusation nor a question. Just a truth. She’s a goddess of many things, but the delicacies of conversation are not among them. Poetry is the domain of her brother.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s eyes flicker away from her Lady, out towards the trees. “Yes,” she says.</p>
<p>“Do you regret him?” Artemis asks.</p>
<p>Atalanta frowns. Does she? She doesn’t want to think about it. “Does it matter?”</p>
<p>“He was a man. You are not a bear.”</p>
<p>Atalanta looks back towards her Lady, but she lets her eyes focus on the darkening sky behind the goddess. “You could fix that.”</p>
<p>Artemis’ voice drips with… amusement? “There’s nothing to fix. You were meant to run on two legs. You haven’t answered my question.”</p>
<p>“You know my heart,” Atalanta replies. Then, she finds her Lady’s eyes with her own. She holds her Lady’s molten gaze.  “You haven’t answered mine.”</p>
<p>For a while, Artemis regards Atalanta. Time does not always pass in the presence of the divine. Perhaps there is a moment of silence, and perhaps the silence stretches a hundred years. Rhythms that would normally mark the going of seconds—the shifting of the breeze, the rise and fall of Atalanta’s chest, the quickened beat of her heart—freeze perfectly in the sacred still.</p>
<p>“He mattered to you,” Artemis finally says.</p>
<p>Something in Atalanta breaks. Deep inside herself, she pushes it aside. “I loved him,” she says, vehemence coloring her tone. Then, softer, “But not as I love you.”</p>
<p>There’s something akin to pity in Artemis’ silver eyes. It makes Atalanta bristle. “Dear one,” her Lady says. “You are not a bear.”</p>
<p>Atalanta tamps down the growl building in her chest. She knows better than to growl at her Lady, even if no one’s cuffed her ears for it in years. “I am in all the ways that matter.”</p>
<p>Artemis hums a wordless reply, neither accepting nor disputing. Then she raises a hand and beckons. “Come,” she says. “It’s a night good for a hunt.” With long, loping strides she sets off down the steep, rocky slope beneath Atalanta’s mountain den towards the forest below. She doesn’t look back to see whether Atalanta follows her. Atalanta follows her. Atalanta will always follow her.</p>
<p>Hunting alongside Artemis is like nothing else.</p>
<p>Atalanta, faster than all the nymphs who come to join, runs just behind her Lady, keeping up only because the goddess allows it. Her mortal lungs burn, but it’s the exhilarating burn of pushing herself to her limit. Strong legs carry her over rocks and fallen trees, never breaking pace. The wind pushes against her face. Nothing that Atalanta knows can compare to just <em>running</em>, following in the wake of the light of her mistress.</p>
<p>For Artemis’ retinue, game is plentiful, but not so plentiful that the hunters don’t have to work. By the night’s end, Atalanta seizes a majestic stag with antlers as wide as the span of her arms. Eschewing spear and bow, she catches it with her hands and wrestles it to the ground before breaking its neck. Exultant smile on her face, she lays the beast at her goddess’ feet.</p>
<p>Artemis accepts the sacrifice.</p>
<p>In that moment, for Atalanta, there is nothing in the world but her Lady.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Moons come and moons go. It’s summer. The woods team with life. Listening to the comings and goings of the forest, Atalanta keeps herself occupied.</p>
<p>She sharpens her knives. She fletches new arrows to make up for the ones she loses. She mends her clothes. Occasionally she ventures down to the village markets for the few things she doesn’t make well for herself.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think about the boar.</p>
<p>She.</p>
<p>Doesn’t.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When the messenger arrives, his arrival is both unexpected and unwelcome. Atalanta hasn’t spoken to a human in weeks. The occasional nymph, yes, but not a human, not a man. Things are better that way. She has no interest in men. She has even less interest in men wearing the emblem of Tegea. The emblem of Iasus, lord of Arcadia.</p>
<p>“Your father would like to see you,” the messenger says. He’s tall, but too skinny, with close-cropped hair and the sort of sunken look in his cheeks that suggests his life is not his own.</p>
<p>“Is that so?” Atalanta replies, voice chill. “If it is so, then he can come here himself.”</p>
<p>Atalanta, of course, does not expect Iasus to make the journey up through the forests to her den. She’d prefer he not.</p>
<p>Alas.</p>
<p>Grey-haired Iasus wrings his hands—<em>actually, literally, wrings his hands</em>—as he speaks. He’s come with an armed escort, six men in gleaming bronze, so it’s not clear to Atalanta <em>why</em> he seems so frightened. She’s just one <em>girl-child</em>, after all. But he reeks of terror, like a rabbit caught in the open as a hawk circles. “I wanted a son,” he starts, haltingly. “Needed a son,” he corrects. “The harvest was bad. I didn’t… we didn’t… there wasn’t enough food…”</p>
<p>“What do you want?” Atalanta demands.</p>
<p>“When I heard about the boar,” Iasus tries. “In Calydon. And you. And—”</p>
<p>Atalanta turns away, starts back for her den. Nothing Iasus has to say interests her.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta tries to forget Iasus’ visit, but the memory of him and his hand wringing haunts her.</p>
<p>How different her life would have been had she been born a boy instead of as healthy as a boy.</p>
<p>Different.</p>
<p>Better?</p>
<p>When her Lady next visits, Atalanta asks—“Were I a man, would you love me still?”</p>
<p>In a city, according to the customs of the priests, it would be an unmannered question. They’re not in a city and Atalanta is not a priest. They sit side by side together on the banks of a brook, resting their feet in its cool waters. For half the night they’ve tracked a deer, but now the moon is high and sometimes the purpose of a hunt isn’t to kill. Artemis dismissed her retinue of nymphs a while ago.</p>
<p>Artemis’ silver eyes swirl, shining in the shadows. “Do you desire to be a man?” the goddess asks. She speaks softly, but her voice always brims with the terrible power of her nature.</p>
<p>Frowning, Atalanta considers the question, rolling it about in her mind. “No,” she finally says. “I don’t see the point.”</p>
<p>Artemis inclines her head ever so slightly, acknowledging and accepting Atalanta’s answer. Then, slowly, “I loved a man once,” Artemis says. “He was a great hunter. A son of gods. I quarreled with my brother for his sake.” She pauses. Her words are heavy in the quiet forest. “I loved him. But not as I love you.”</p>
<p>Atalanta lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.</p>
<p>Artemis stands in a single fluid motion. Grace becomes her. She offers Atalanta her hand. “I think the deer is close,” she says.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes the hand.</p>
<p>Artemis’ skin—if it can be called that—is as cool and hard as the marble of her statues in her shrines and temples. When Atalanta was a cub, she would cling to her Lady’s legs in the long, scorching days of the summer for relief from the heat. Her bear-mother didn’t approve, but her Lady never begrudged her. To Atalanta, Artemis has never been cold.</p>
<p>
  <em>Different.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Not better.</em>
</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The moon, stars, and sun continue their march across the heavens.</p>
<p>Atalanta has every intention of wintering in her den as she always has when she goes down for her monthly round at the agora of Maenalus, the closest town to her range. She’s looking to trade furs for iron arrowheads. It’s always easier to do business with the town during harvest time. People bargain with slightly less urgency when there’s food on their tables.</p>
<p>She sees him in the agora.</p>
<p>But it’s not him.</p>
<p>Just someone like him.</p>
<p>Jason, he says his name is. Son of Aeson. Whoever that is. Jason speaks with a thick northern accent, and the two names sound the same to Atalanta’s ear. He’s dark of hair, with thick arms and a strong jaw. A would-be king of Iolcus, looking for heroes to crew his ship on a journey to the end of the world. He claims he’s traveled all this way, to this small town in the backwaters of Arcadia, seeking <em>her</em>.</p>
<p>Bad news travels fast.</p>
<p>Atalanta has no interest in sheep, no matter how golden they may be. She is a hunter, not a shepherd. She has even less interest in <em>dead</em> sheep. Jason’s quest is a fool’s errand. She tells him so, briefly, in a single word, “<em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>When she moves to leave, however, the fool with his errand persists. <em>Glory</em>, he says. <em>Fame everlasting</em>. As if these things have value to a bear. Atalanta keeps walking.</p>
<p>“What took you to Calydon then?” Jason asks. They’re halfway up the mountain back to Atalanta’s den, and he’s proving indefatigable, even as Atalanta steers her course over the worst terrain and the hardest path she knows.</p>
<p>Eyes fixed ahead, not sparing a glance over her shoulder at him, Atalanta replies, “That was a hunt.” She pushes a branch aside as she passes, then immediately lets it go, aiming for where she hopes Jason’s face will be.</p>
<p>“If I promise a dozen oxen to Artemis, then will you join me?” Jason asks. From the sound of him, he avoided the branch.</p>
<p>Atalanta finally pauses. She turns and fixes him with what she hopes is a withering glare. “I do not strike deals on my Lady’s behalf.”</p>
<p>Jason, obnoxious, grins.</p>
<p>Annoyed to no end, Atalanta starts her trek once more. Thankfully, Jason doesn’t follow.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Two nights later, beneath a full moon, Atalanta is cooking a hare when her Lady comes up out of the forest. She seats herself at Atalanta’s fire. “<em>Two</em> dozen oxen,” she says, frowning.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s brow furrows. “Is that how many you want?” she asks.</p>
<p>“That’s how many he’s given,” Artemis replies. “So far.”</p>
<p>Atalanta thinks back to the stranger in the agora. Dark of hair, strong, confident. So familiar, but a stranger still. Were he to laugh, would his laugh be familiar too? “Where did he get two dozen oxen from? There are barely that many in all the towns here put together.”</p>
<p>“Hera helps him,” Artemis answers. Disdain drips from her voice. “As does Athena. Will you go?”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s lips tighten into a thin line. Will she? “I don’t want to go with him,” Atalanta says. She pokes her cooking fire with a stick. Sparks crackle up into the dark night sky. The hare should be done soon. “His quest won’t end well.”</p>
<p>“Then don’t go,” Artemis says.</p>
<p>“He gave you two dozen oxen,” Atalanta replies. Her stomach rumbles. Done or not, it’s time to eat. She leans forward and takes the hare from the fire. Stabbing the spit into the ground to keep the meat clean from dirt, she cuts a piece for her Lady and then a piece for herself.</p>
<p>Artemis takes the offering. She holds it close to her face and inhales deeply. “But I am here and not there,” she says.</p>
<p>“Would you forbid me from following him?” Atalanta asks. She takes a bite out of her hare. It’s good. She chews, swallows, takes another bite.</p>
<p>Artemis sits silent for a while, staring at Atalanta’s fire as it burns down. After a time, her silver eyes flicker to Atalanta. “As long as I have your heart, I would never forbid you anything.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>And so Atalanta goes back down to Maenalus, and then she leaves Arcadia and goes up to Iolcus.</p>
<p>She does it because—</p>
<p>Ah, but she doesn’t think about the boar.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>At first the crew Jason has assembled don’t want to sail with a woman. Most think it’s bad luck, and a few think she’ll… she’s not terribly sure. Cause strife with feminine wiles? Something like that.</p>
<p>Jason makes a few token attempts at peacekeeping, but his overtures fail in short order. Atalanta brushes him aside. Even if words could succeed, she’s already seen how such ends. Not well. She’ll correct the crew herself.</p>
<p>Atalanta sizes up the sailors as they block her way from land up onto the dock. For the most part, they’re all rugged, handsome, solid, standing tall with properly heroic facial hair. Men too old to be idle in their fathers’ households, but too young to have households of their own. She hopes this voyage doesn’t last long enough she’ll ever have to tell them apart. Finally, her eyes rest on one she thinks is at least as strong as the rest of them. “You,” she says, pointing. “Fight me.”</p>
<p>The man is roughly Atalanta’s height, and probably slightly older. His hair is black and his beard is full. He doesn’t want for muscles. He’d feed an entire family of wolves. He lets out a brief bark of a laugh. Laughing because he can’t think of anything else to do. Then it occurs to him to be offended. “What?”</p>
<p>Atalanta glares, a growl rumbling in her chest. He heard her. Turning her back on the crowd, she stalks to open ground. Iolchus has wealth enough to pave the street to the dock, so she has to go some distance to reach sandy earth. When she finds a suitable place, she draws out a circular boundary with the butt of her spear. She sets her belongings down outside the ring. Then she looks back to Jason’s company of heroes, crosses her arms, and waits.</p>
<p>There’s more laughter from that direction, and several men push the one Atalanta challenged forward. He argues at first, but at last he strides forth. As he walks, he strips, revealing, unsurprisingly, even more muscles. A thin sheen of sweat makes his skin gleam in the morning sun. The others follow after him, Jason bringing up a reluctant rear.</p>
<p>Should Atalanta strip too? Probably. Men are very peculiar about when clothes should and shouldn’t be worn. The nymphs Atalanta grew up with wore clothes when they felt like it, and didn’t when they didn’t. More often than not, they didn’t. Quickly, she disrobes and drops her tunic with her other things on the ground.</p>
<p>The man she challenged hesitates. He starts to look away, and then he stares.</p>
<p>Uhg. Maybe she should have kept her tunic on? It’s his problem though, not hers. If he’d wanted her to stay clothed, he should have done the same.</p>
<p>The man steps into the ring. He offers a sort of half-bow. “I am Peleus of Aegina, son of Aeacus,” he says. His voice is deep, with a full resonance. He sounds very self-assured.</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t bow. “I am Atalanta,” she says. But he already knew that. She doesn’t mention Iasus, because he’s not actually her father. And she doesn’t mention the bear, because bears don’t have names. She turns her attention to the watching crowd. “Who will judge?”</p>
<p>There’s a pause, then one man steps forward. He looks a bit like the one Atalanta is about to wrestle, though shorter and leaner. For a hero, he’s rather average-looking. “Admetus of Pherae, son of Pheres,” he says, introducing himself. He smiles, friendly. “My pleasure.”</p>
<p>Atalanta and Peleus square off within the circle and Admetus calls the contest to begin.</p>
<p>At once, Atalanta and Peleus charge at one another, feet kicking up sprays of sand, both trying to get the advantage of momentum. When they collide, Peleus is the bigger of the two of them, and he catches Atalanta with his shoulder, throwing her back through the air. Twisting, she manages to land on her stomach instead of her back, and inside the ring. Before Peleus can fall on her to force a submission, she throws a leg out, tripping him. He goes sprawling nearby, also contorting to avoid landing the wrong way and losing the point. Atalanta takes the opportunity to spring up to her feet again.</p>
<p>Too wary of her own trick to charge, Atalanta lets Peleus stand again, and then they circle. They’re both breathing heavily now.</p>
<p>One step. Two steps. Three steps. That’s all Atalanta has patience for. She darts forward. Peleus isn’t quite ready for her, and he tries to step back instead of meeting her full-on again. Atalanta catches his upper arms and they grapple. He’s strong, but she was raised by a bear. And the bear named her to be <em>equal</em> to a bear. With brute force, grunting angrily, she turns his shoulder backwards in its socket, shoves Peleus to the ground, and makes as if to finish ripping his arm clean from his body. To ensure he can’t throw her off, she grinds a knee into the elbow of his other arm.</p>
<p>Gasping in pain as he struggles, Peleus lasts longer than Atalanta expected.</p>
<p>That probably isn’t saying much.</p>
<p>Conceding, Peleus goes limp. Admetus calls the victory for Atalanta.</p>
<p>As the onlookers laugh, cheer, and jeer, Atalanta gets off Peleus and stands. Without acknowledging him, she goes over to her things and pulls her tunic back on. She picks up her belongings and heads back to the dock. Then, she strides across the gangway onto Jason’s ship, picks out a bench for herself, and sits down. Once she’s seated, no one summons the courage to try to remove her.</p>
<p>Feminine wiles.</p>
<p>Hah.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Life aboard the <em>Argo</em> is a lot of rowing and a lot of boredom. And there’s so much sun. On the sea, it’s all sun and sun and neverending sun. Atalanta misses the shade of the Arcadian forests almost as soon as the <em>Argo </em>embarks.</p>
<p>For the most part, Atalanta’s companions are tolerable, though some of them are a bit odd. Despite her initial misgivings, she starts to pick up their names and manages to tell some of them apart after the first few days on the water. <em>Especially</em> the odd ones.</p>
<p>Peleus sulks. Atalanta ignores him.</p>
<p>Castor and Pollux finish one another’s sentences. It’s uncanny.</p>
<p>Heracles is full of himself, but Atalanta supposes she’d be full of herself too if she were a child of Zeus, not that those are terribly uncommon. Castor—or maybe it’s Pollux—is a son of Zeus too, but the Dioscuri aren’t half as conceited about it as Heracles. He’s gallant enough though, as long as he’s not too deep in his cups.</p>
<p>Out of all the crew, Atalanta finds herself falling in with Admetus, the decidedly average judge of her match with Peleus. He is, in a manner of thinking, a cousin of Atalanta’s. After all, his devotions are to the brother of Atalanta’s Lady. Compared to the raucous pranks of Heracles and the Dioscuri, Admetus’ steady calm and unwavering <em>reasonableness </em>are a welcome respite. He’s a bit bland though. Sometimes he and Atalanta while away hours talking about his home of Pherae and her den in the Menalon. Other times, they sit together in silence, listening to Orpheus sing.</p>
<p>Ah. Orpheus. Orpheus has a beautiful voice. It’s so beautiful that no one minds all he sings about is his love of Calais, nor are there complaints when all Calais does is lounge about being serenaded. Having wings makes him and his brother Zetes poor oarsmen in any case; they don’t fit well on the benches. The sons of Boreas are, however, quite good at setting the sail when there’s a wind to catch.</p>
<p>And then there’s Euphemus.</p>
<p>Atalanta avoids Euphemus.</p>
<p>They got along well enough in Calydon, but he reminds her of what she’d rather forget.</p>
<p>He avoids her as well.</p>
<p>The feeling is likely mutual.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When the ship lands in Lemnos, no one but Atalanta thinks to contemplate <em>why </em>the entire island has no men—not that the answer is difficult to arrive at. Stranger, really, that there aren’t more islands with no men. In any case, the crew of the <em>Argo</em> trot off the ship and into the arms of welcoming women of Lemnos in the blink of an eye.</p>
<p>Atalanta stays with the ship while her comrades spend themselves in the halls of the city. She half expects to wake one morning and find all the other sailors were murdered in their sleep.</p>
<p>She waits a week, only occasionally seeing a crewmate straggle back to the ship to retrieve some gift to give to his newest lover. What must it be like to be so driven by a lust for flesh? The thought crosses Atalanta’s mind that perhaps her companions know something she doesn’t.</p>
<p>To pass the time, Atalanta takes a piece of driftwood from the beach and whittles it into a votive figure of her Lady. Since setting out from Thessaly for open seas, Artemis has felt distant. She’s a goddess of wild forests, streams, deer and wolves, great hunts—the only wildlife common to the wine-dark Aegean are fish, fish, and more fish. Even as the rough icon takes shape beneath Atalanta’s hand, she can’t quite feel her Lady as she can when she’s racing through the forests of Arcadia. Is it because she’s a poor hand at carving? But Artemis blesses hunters, not craftsmen.</p>
<p>When Atalanta’s journey concludes, then she’ll hunt with her Lady again. Until then—</p>
<p>Eventually it’s Heracles of all people who corrals the wayward men of the <em>Argo</em> and drives them back to their task. Their fearless leader Jason is the last one to return. Once he’s aboard though, together, they depart once more. Atalanta tucks her small offering into her pack.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>“Is there a reason,” Atalanta starts, “That you all went off like that?” Her question is to Admetus. They’re sitting side by side in a corner of the deck having dinner together. The sun is setting on the horizon, painting the dark sea a brilliant red. The air is quiet but for the wind. Even Orpheus has to eat every now and then.</p>
<p>Admetus sighs and smiles. He strokes his thick beard. “Have you ever been in love, my bear friend?” Admetus asks.</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs. No? Yes? Maybe? It depends? “I love my Lady,” she says.</p>
<p>Still smiling, Admetus shakes his head. “Loving gods is different from loving men and women. Divine love is a love of excellence. Have you ever been <em>in </em>love?”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s thoughts flicker to the boar. “Not really,” she says.</p>
<p>“Someday you’ll fall for a man,” Admetus says. There’s a dreamy quality to his tone. In Atalanta’s experience, he gets this way every time he starts thinking about Apollo. “Then you’ll understand.”</p>
<p>Atalanta grunts. “Unlikely.”</p>
<p>“Or a woman,” Admetus amends. “I’ve heard a lot about your Lady and her nymphs.” He leans over to nudge Atalanta’s side with his elbow. His voice drops to a loud whisper. “Is it true what they say happened with Callisto?”</p>
<p>Atalanta fixes Admetus with a withering glare. She rams her elbow into his side in return, hard enough to tip him off balance and knock him onto the ship’s deck. She doesn’t know what ‘they’ say happened, but she can guess from Admetus’ tone. She’s heard this sort of question before. “No,” she growls. “It’s not.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The journey proceeds in a series of stops and starts, long stretches of nothing punctuated by sudden flurries of battle and desperation. The <em>Argo</em> loses men, and she gains new ones to replace them.</p>
<p>Their stay at Cyzicus starts well. The king—called Cyzicus, just like his city—plays host excellently, holding a feast and games in honor of the visiting heroes. One of the events in the games is a race. Atalanta wins, and then she keeps running. The course wasn’t long enough, and the wind is better competition than her crewmates, who she leaves doubled over panting in her wake. It feels good to stretch her legs.</p>
<p>When the <em>Argo</em> makes to leave though, a storm rises and they’re forced back to the beach in the dark. Mistaking them for raiders, the locals mass to attack. Jason orders the crew to charge forth in a violent defense. And they win. Cyzicus is among the dead.</p>
<p>At least, when they finish burying the bodies, the voyagers know they were blameless in the slaughter. Jason makes sure they know it. As they raise sail and make for open sea once more, he absolves the crew several times, and himself several more times. It wasn’t their fault, and it certainly wasn’t his fault.</p>
<p>They next sail east and land in Mysia, where Heracles, Hylas, and Polyphemus go missing chasing nymphs. Bah. Even the youngest wolves know not to chase nymphs. Though the <em>Argo </em>waits three days for them, they never appear and so the ship departs without them. More glory for the rest of them, Jason announces.</p>
<p>A bit northwards and east again in the land of the Bebryces, Pollux faces off with the king there and lays him out with a single blow. Had Amycus lived, Atalanta would have thought he’d apprehend a lesson about challenging ships full of heroes to boxing matches. He doesn’t live though, so Pollux, Jason, Atalanta and the rest make a hasty departure.</p>
<p>Then, heading west, they come to Thrace and the blind seer Phineus, hounded by harpies. Jason bargains the services of Zetes and Calais in exchange for prophecy. They set out a feast, wait for the storm-vultures to descend, and all is going well until the two winged sons of Boreas crash into the waves chasing off the monsters. Their sacrifice is enough, however, and Phineus goes aside with Jason to speak whatever wisdom Jason has purchased with the lives of his men.</p>
<p>And so the <em>Argo </em>is off once more.</p>
<p>Orpheus mourns, eloquently. Not that he can act in any other way. Even his snoring is eloquent, as the entire rest of the crew can attest.</p>
<p>Eventually they come to the Symplegades—the two cliffs that clash together, pulverizing any ship unlucky enough to attempt passage betwixt them. Following the tail-feathers of a white dove, the crew row hard. Somehow, perhaps by the grace of Jason’s patron Hera, the <em>Argo </em>speeds through the obstacle, losing only a bit of its stern.</p>
<p>Does Artemis see Atalanta sailing on a ship dedicated to her father’s wife and scowl? Is that the cause of her absence? Surrounded by cheering comrades celebrating their relief at narrowly avoiding a quick descent to Hades, Atalanta pushes her misgivings aside and drinks deeply of the wineskin when Admetus passes it to her. Zetes and Calais did not die in vain.</p>
<p>Past the Bosphorus, sailing is smoother. There’s a steady wind for their sail and they spend even more time lazing on the deck of the ship. Of note, they come to a small island and find there the four sons of Phrixus, whose dead sheep is why Jason has led his crew all this way. Jason offers passage towards Cochis to the shipwrecked men, and their destination indeed seems close at hand.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When the <em>Argo</em> docks near the river Phasis, Phrixsus’ widow Chalciope, her younger sister Medea, and their small brother Absyrtus greet Jason and his crew. They are the golden children of Aeetes and their welcome is a royal one indeed. Chalchiope, as the oldest by many years, leads them. Dressed in purple and heavy with gold, she thanks the crew of the <em>Argo</em> for returning her sons to her, and she offers them every hospitality due to princely guests.</p>
<p>Jason, of course, accepts. If he didn’t accept—well, the crew of the <em>Argo</em>, sailing for him for so many weeks, stink like salt and fish. Atalanta probably wouldn’t kill for a hot bath, but she’d think about it.</p>
<p>As soon as the pleasantries are over, however, Jason gets straight to the point. “I’ve come for the fleece of the golden ram,” he says, ever earnest. Earnest, but, unlike Orpheus, never eloquent. “Do you have it?”</p>
<p>Chalchiope’s welcoming smile turns frosty and the Colchian guards shift uneasily, their grips tightening around their not-so-ceremonial spears. Out of all the kingdoms the <em>Argo </em>has seen, Colchis is the best armed. “We do,” Chalchiope replies. “But I do not think our father will part with it.”</p>
<p>“I must speak to him then,” Jason says, oblivious to the sudden chill. “Where is he?”</p>
<p>“He is away hunting,” is Chalchiope’s answer. “But when he returns, I’m sure he will want to speak with you as well.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Jason replies. “When will he be back?”</p>
<p>And so they continue.</p>
<p>As the exchange grows stale, Atalanta’s attention wanders from the speakers to the woman behind them.</p>
<p>Medea.</p>
<p>She’s lovely. Long, unbound dark hair frames a pale face. Thick lines of black kohl add depth to dark eyes. With an air of eastern glamor about her, Medea could never be mistaken for an Achaean. Younger than Chalciope and older than Absyrtus, Atalanta thinks she’s perhaps twenty—if she’s older, it’s not by much. She has the curving breasts and full hips of a woman, but, still though, she’s not nearly as worn by the world as her sister.  She holds herself with the regal poise of her station, but her wide-eyed gaze is fixed on Jason like a lovestruck maid.</p>
<p>And there it is, Atalanta thinks. Jason has a royal admirer, and Atalanta’s gut assures her nothing in Colchis will end well for any of them. Which, she supposes, is roughly what she’d thought even before they set out.</p>
<p>Jason, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice Medea at all—and in Atalanta’s estimation, that augurs all the worse.</p>
<p>When at last the pleasantries are over, the three royal children of Aeetes escort the crew of the <em>Argo</em> to up from the docks and to the city of Aea. Built close to the mouth of the Phasis, the capital of Colchis stands as old as any of the stately polities of the Aegean. Ringed by stone walls that rise up to six times over Atalanta’s height, it commands awe from the Greeks as they pass through its great iron gates.</p>
<p>Beyond the gates, citizens crowd beside the main street to stare at the dark-skinned foreigners.</p>
<p>Atalanta and the other sailors stare back.</p>
<p>They are a long way from home.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Prosperous Colchis spares no expense for her guests. Sprawled on golden couches in the courtyard of the palace, the crew of the <em>Argo </em>drink and drink and drink, and they devour the bounty of Aeetes’ recent hunt with their gracious host. Even Atalanta, who is not in the custom of indulgence, joins her comrades in draining cup after cup and throwing out the dregs to make room for more wine. Why not? They’re finally, finally, at long last, off their ship. Laughter fills the evening and it seems, perhaps, that their voyage is coming to fruition.</p>
<p>Always ready, Orpheus takes up his lyre and sings a celebratory ode to the generosity of hosts. Naturally, his performance eclipses most everything else.</p>
<p>As his men revel, Jason, sober, sits with Aeetes at the head of the hall. Determined smile on his face and silver tongue wagging in his mouth, he coaxes and cajoles as if he were an Athenian. Surely the fleece of the golden ram, the ram that carried Phrixus the Boeotian to Colchis, does not belong so far from its nativity. And hasn’t Jason returned from their ill-fated vengeance quest the sons of Phrixus, who are sons too of Chalciope and through her grandsons of Aeetes? Surely the treasure of their father is an appropriate wage for their homecoming.</p>
<p>At first Aeetes seems amused at Jason’s presumptions, but as the night darkens and the wine flows, his mood chills. The golden ram was sacrificed to Zeus. Its fleece has been laid in a grove sacred to city-storming Ares. The grove is watched by a sleepless dragon, set to guard the spoils contained there by the god himself. Even if Aeetes desired to reward Jason’s wheedling, removing the fleece from the grove cannot be done.</p>
<p>But Jason has never been one to take no for an answer.</p>
<p>From the shadows just beyond the courtyard, Medea haunts about. Her siblings are nowhere to be seen. It’s just her. Her watching the banquet. Her watching Jason.</p>
<p>But enough of Jason, of Aeetes, of kings and of men.</p>
<p>Atalanta sinks down into the crimson cushions of her couch. She’s had so much to eat and to drink that she’s starting to slide into sleep. Surrounded by finely painted walls and tall marble columns, the courtyard of the feast has no roof but the sky and the stars. The moon is starting to come into her view, peeking out from the edge of the palace roof. She thinks she’ll force herself to stay awake until her Lady’s silver lamp rises just a bit higher. And then—</p>
<p>The Dioscuri are full-grown, but they act like boys nonetheless. They ask no leave to disturb Atalanta’s peace.</p>
<p>“We’re taking bets,” one of them says. Maybe Pollux. He looks a touch more radiant than his brother.</p>
<p>“On how long,” Castor continues.</p>
<p>“It takes our fearless leader and the king’s daughter to—”</p>
<p>Castor finishes the announcement by making a lewd gesture with his hands.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes one of the cushions on her couch and hits Pollux in the face with it.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>In the morning, Atalanta rises before anyone else. Perhaps because the night before she drank less than everyone else.</p>
<p>Dressing in a tunic and strapping sandals to her feet, she slips out of the palace into the cold morning air. She inhales sharply through her nose, breathing in lingering smoke from fires lit and banked yesterday. Her skin ripples with gooseflesh. It’s getting towards winter and Colchis is far north of Arcadia.</p>
<p>Briefly, she rubs her hands together, willing warmth into her fingers.</p>
<p>It’s not very effective.</p>
<p>Giving up on her fingers, Atalanta picks a direction through Aea’s streets and sets off at a jog. When she feels sleep has finally fallen away and there’s a bit of heat in her limbs, she kicks up to a run.</p>
<p>A smile pulls across her face as the wind slips through her hair and she slips through the wind.</p>
<p>There’s no room to run on a ship. It’s good to be on land again.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Aeetes sets a series of impossible tasks as the price for the golden fleece. The crew of the <em>Argo </em>have suggestions for how to overcome the challenges, of course, but Jason doesn’t take counsel with them. Instead, he cleaves to Aeetes’ daughter Medea. As the appointed day of his first task draws near, he whiles away hours and hours regaling Medea with stories of the voyage from Iolchus, and of a whole series of heroic feats allegedly performed by him even before he gathered up his crew to sail with him for the golden fleece. Rapt, Medea hangs onto his every word.</p>
<p>Jason will say things that aren’t funny, and Medea will laugh anyway.</p>
<p>Atalanta pushes her misgivings about the whole affair down and away, out of her mind. She goes on her morning runs, and on mid-day runs, and on evening runs too. Jason will sort out his business—or the gods will do it for him.</p>
<p>Even so, Atalanta can’t avoid the intrigues entirely.</p>
<p>Atalanta hears it from Admetus. He draws her aside as the whole troop of the crew file into the hall of the palace for yet another banquet. “Bear friend,” he whispers, “They all say here that Medea is a witch.”</p>
<p>Atalanta tilts her head to the side. “She’s young,” she says.</p>
<p>Admetus shrugs. “That’s what they all say. She’s a granddaughter of the sun, after all.” He pauses, clears his throat, casts his eyes about. “Do you think she’s cast a spell on him?”</p>
<p>Atalanta has doubts. <em>Young </em>and <em>witch </em>aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, she supposes. But would a great and powerful sorceress be ensnared by the faltering charms of... of <em>Jason</em> of all people? She doesn’t see it.</p>
<p>Then, Jason yokes Aeetes’ bulls, plows the king’s field, sows it with dragon’s teeth, and kills the men who grow from the ground. Anyone with eyes can see that he’s aided by black magic in doing it. Atalanta has seen him bleed often enough to know that he <em>does</em> bleed. Watching blades slide off him as if he’s made of stone or bronze is wrong in a way she can’t quite articulate. It makes her grind her teeth. She clenches her hands into fists and her fingernails bite into her palms.</p>
<p>So Medea is a witch after all.</p>
<p>Aeetes, doubtless, sees the wrongness of it all too. And surely he sees what everyone else has seen with regards to his daughter’s involvement. Maybe that’s why he forswears himself and denies Jason the golden fleece hanging in the temple to Ares, guarded by the sleepless dragon.</p>
<p>Jason takes it oddly well. Because, well, Jason has magic for this too.</p>
<p>He orders all his crew onto the ship, taking many fine gifts from Aeetes with them, while he spends a final night in the palace of Colchis. Then, a little time after the white moon reaches her apex in the starlit heavens, he comes running to the <em>Argo</em>, pursued by what must surely be every guard in the kingdom. Running to catch him, they carry so many torches that they turn dark to day.</p>
<p>Accompanying Jason are Medea and Absyrtus. Sprinting along next to Jason—Atalanta can’t get it out of her head, they both look so <em>young</em>. They both look so <em>scared</em>. Slung over Jason’s shoulder is his prize, the dead sheep they’ve come so far and spilled so much blood for.</p>
<p>Leaping onto the <em>Argo</em>, Jason shouts out a command.</p>
<p>It’s time to sail.</p>
<p>Instead of untying the ropes that moor the ship to the pier, the crew take axes and cut them. It’s faster. The ship’s helmsman Ancaeus hauls on the steering oar, Orpheus trades his lyre for a drum, and Atalanta and all the rest put their backs into rowing the <em>Argo </em>out of the harbor. A few others, Atalanta doesn’t spare a glance to see who, scramble to get the sail down for a bit of added speed.</p>
<p>The <em>Argo</em>, however, is a weighty ship built to cross the Aegean, the Propontis, and the Axeinos. The Colchians pursue them in light craft, ill-suited to open seas but far swifter in maneuvering about in the city’s port. Archers on the decks of the swifter ships nock and draw, ready to loose as soon as they pull into range. A few of the pursuing vessels carry lit braziers, promising a volley of fire should they come close enough. Shouted orders ring out through the night.</p>
<p>As Atalanta hauls at her oar, from the corner of her eye she sees Jason round on Medea. The poor girl is shaking.</p>
<p>“<em>Do something!</em>” Jason screams, voice so shrill it cracks.</p>
<p>Medea takes a step back, but trips and falls. Even as Jason looms over her, she snarls and screams up at him, “<em>What do you want me to do?</em>” Like a cornered wolf.</p>
<p>“<em>I don’t know! I don’t care!</em>” Jason’s panic doesn’t become him. “<em>Just do it!</em>”</p>
<p>An arrow, the first of many, thunks into the wood deck next to Jason’s foot. He swears and jumps backwards, not that it will do him any good. There’s nowhere to hide on the open water. Another arrow screams through the night and catches Atalanta’s bench-mate in the throat. With a spray of dark blood and a wet gurgling, he slumps over their oar, leaving her to push him off it and then pull the oar by herself.</p>
<p>Crouched down next to Medea, little Absyrtus wails. He can’t be older than ten.</p>
<p>Medea turns on Absyrtus now. “<em>Shut up! Shut up! Just</em>—”</p>
<p>Medea draws a blade from her belt. It flashes silver in the moonlight. Moving with all the forceful power of desperation, she slits Absyrtus’ throat with such violence it half-decapitates him.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s oar slips from her limp fingers.</p>
<p>Absyrtus, dead, bleeds out on the deck. Medea sets to hacking his head fully off his slight body.</p>
<p>In an instant Atalanta abandons her post. She leaps up from her bench, reaches for her own knife. Since the moment her mother took her in, Atalanta has been in the service of her Lady. Artemis is a protector of children.</p>
<p>Atalanta is still a few steps away from the atrocity when Jason comes crashing into her from the side.</p>
<p>They roll about on the deck. Atalanta has her knife. Jason has his. Her knife does nothing to him. His knife punches holes into her body, stabs between her ribs to pierce her lungs. Blood bubbling from her mouth, Atalanta screams wordless fury. Even when she goes for his eyes, trying to cram her fingers behind them in their sockets and and rip them out, it’s as if his entire body is sheathed in some invisible armor. It’s not a fair fight. It’s not fair. It’s not a fight.</p>
<p>Breathing heavily, Jason stands and steps away. He’s covered in Atalanta’s blood. Drenched. Dripping dark crimson. Still holding his knife, he stares down at Atalanta lying on the deck. His eyes are wild. All he sees is his coming kingdom.</p>
<p>Sprawled out, dying, Atalanta watches Medea, lit by moonlight, throw Absyrtus’ head and severed limbs into the sea.</p>
<p>There’s beauty in the horror. With the last of her strength, Atalanta looks away. She doesn’t want the final thing she sees to be kinslaying.</p>
<p>Where is Artemis, protector of children?</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When Atalanta opens her eyes, she sees a sun too bright and too hot to be the light of Elysium.</p>
<p>She’s lying on her back.</p>
<p>The gentle rocking beneath her tells her she’s on a ship. The <em>Argo</em>.</p>
<p>Was it all a bad dream?</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>The slosh of oars in water fills Atalanta’s ears, just like the smell of salt air fills her nose. Jason leans against the mast some distance away, arms crossed, watching. There’s a darkness in his eyes. His clothes have been cleaned of Atalanta’s blood—mostly. There are still discolored spots on his tunic, just like there are discolored spots on the deck at his feet. He is not the man Atalanta wished him to be.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s own tunic feels stiff. There are holes in it from where Jason’s knife punched through.</p>
<p>The kinslayer is sitting nearby, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees. Her clothes, like those of Atalanta and Jason, are still stained with blood. When she sees Atalanta stirring, Medea turns her head to stare. She draws back, hugs herself a bit tighter.</p>
<p>“I saved you,” Medea says. Even curled in on herself, defending herself from the world, her voice is forceful, projecting authority and fire. She is the daughter of a king. She is the granddaughter of a god. She is a child of power and she knows no other way to speak.</p>
<p>Atalanta purses her lips and says nothing.</p>
<p>“You owe me your life,” Medea continues. There’s a note of insistence in her tone. It’s true. It has to be true. If it isn’t true, what is there for her?</p>
<p>Atalanta shakes her head. She wants nothing to do with this witch. On this ship though, there’s nowhere to go.</p>
<p>“You deny me?” Medea asks. Her eyes narrow by a fraction.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s reply is the truth she lives by. “My life is not mine to owe.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Every time Atalanta sees the dark stains in the wood of the deck, she’s reminded of her failure. She’s reminded that Jason is not Meleager. She’s reminded that she’s a long way from home.</p>
<p>Surrounded by waves and wind—where is Artemis? Where is her Lady?</p>
<p>She keeps her mouth shut and rows.</p>
<p>Her only consolation is that she knows she isn’t the only one among the crew with the sense that sin hangs about the ship now.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Jason and Medea take to laying side by side among cushions near the helm of the ship, him telling tales of himself and her listening. She doesn’t laugh for him anymore.</p>
<p>Jason has promised to marry Medea when they return to Iolcus.</p>
<p>But Jason defended Medea from Atalanta, and that’s how Atalanta knows he won’t stay true.</p>
<p>She says as much to Medea one night under a slim crescent moon. Atalanta is taking her turn at manning the steering oar, keeping the <em>Argo </em>on course while the rest of the crew sleeps. Just far enough that Atalanta would have to take two paces from her post to push her overboard, Medea sits perched on the rail of the ship. Draped in a purple dress embroidered with gold, she stares at Atalanta.</p>
<p>To kill Medea here, when Atalanta is trapped on this ship of Jason’s, so far from land, would be to die with her. Perhaps that is what the goddess wills? Blood for blood. But Artemis is not a goddess who deals in simple drownings.</p>
<p>When Niobe boasted her seven sons and seven daughters put her above holy Leto, Artemis and Apollo shot down each one before her eyes.</p>
<p>When Actaeon lauded his prowess in the hunt, Artemis turned him from man to deer and gave him to his own dogs.</p>
<p>When Oeneus failed to sacrifice, she gifted his kingdom a boar.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Medea says.</p>
<p>Atalanta says nothing back. She has no absolution to offer.</p>
<p>“If I could take it back, I would,” Medea says.</p>
<p>And again Atalanta says nothing.</p>
<p>“I was scared.”</p>
<p>“Jason is not a man of faith,” Atalanta finally says.</p>
<p>Yet, still, Hera guides him.</p>
<p>A shuddering cold darkens Medea’s eyes—two glimmering points of black ice in the night. Her answer comes quietly. Atalanta hears it only because the seawind carries it the two paces between them. “He is.”</p>
<p>Atalanta shakes her head. She knows what she knows.</p>
<p>“You think because he’s been kind to me he’s a bad person?” Medea asks. There’s a bite in her voice. She wants a fight.</p>
<p>Atalanta thinks to Jason screaming in the darkness. It wasn’t kindness. She doesn’t say that though. She shrugs. Medea may want a fight, but Atalanta doesn’t.</p>
<p>Medea ignores Atalanta’s signal of indifference. “I chose him,” she hisses. “That’s what matters.”</p>
<p>Medea could have chosen better, Atalanta thinks.</p>
<p>But—</p>
<p>Atalanta is here on the open sea, manning the tiller and listening to Medea because of a choice too.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>During breakfast, Atalanta stalks over to Admetus’ bench and sits down on the deck next to him. “I don’t like her,” Atalanta says. There’s no privacy on the <em>Argo</em>, so she doesn’t bother trying to speak softly. More efficient if everyone just hears her rather than if they hear gossip. “She shouldn’t be here.”</p>
<p>Admetus purses his lips. He shifts about, uncomfortable, and then, after failing to meet her eyes, decisively looks away. “Well,” he starts. “That hardly matters now.”</p>
<p>Atalanta growls deep in the back of her throat.</p>
<p>Admetus forces himself to look back to Atalanta. And he forces a smile. His voice sounds strained. “We’ll be home soon, bear friend.”</p>
<p>In that, at least, maybe Atalanta can find comfort.</p>
<p> [] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta does not seek out Medea. Medea seeks out Atalanta.</p>
<p>The evening winds are strong and the sail is up, giving the crew a rest from the oars. Keeping to herself, Atalanta sits on the deck by the prow, eating her dinner of fish. Her bear-mother liked fish. Atalanta tolerates fish.</p>
<p>With the sun so low in the sky, Medea’s shadow over Atalanta is long indeed.</p>
<p>“You’re a woman,” Medea says. Her tone is as commanding as ever. It’s hard to tell what she means by her statement.</p>
<p>Hemmed in by the waves on all sides, Atalanta glares at her dinner and tries to ignore Medea. It’s hard. Medea has an innate magnetism that demands Atalanta’s attention.</p>
<p>“Well,” Medea corrects. She pauses. Then, “You’re not really a woman.”</p>
<p>Atalanta glances up.</p>
<p>Medea raises a hand in a sort of shrug. “Since you’re sworn to Artemis.”</p>
<p>This provokes a response from Atalanta. Growling, “Do not profane her name, kinslayer.”</p>
<p>Medea flinches. But then she finds iron. “Or what?” Medea challenges. “You’ll attack me, little Parthenos?”</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. Medea is nearly a decade her junior. Nevermind her crimes. Being spoken to in such a manner, by such a person… rankles. Whatever magic Medea set on her, she can’t feel the wounds Jason’s knife left. It’s different from the way she can’t feel old scars. Old scars linger out of mind until suddenly there’s a twinge of tightness or an old ache. These—it’s as if their brawl never happened. But the memory rises in her mind nonetheless. “Do you want something?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>Medea hesitates. A bit of blush colors her cheeks. Her skin, like that of her countrymen, is paler than Atalanta’s, paler than any of the men of Jason’s crew. The flush makes for a striking contrast. “I ah… I need… do you have…” Medea gestures.</p>
<p>Atalanta purses her lips. She considers—she could tell Medea to use one of her fancy dresses. Or she could tell Medea to make her husband-to-be help her. But she doesn’t. “Yes,” Atalanta says. “Fine.”</p>
<p>Atalanta crams the rest of her dinner into her mouth, pitches the scrap bones overboard, then lumbers across the deck to her pack under her bench. As she rummages about, her hand brushes against her carved figure of her Lady.</p>
<p>How long has it been since she hunted?</p>
<p>How long has it been since she stood in her Lady’s presence?</p>
<p>Too long, and too long again.</p>
<p>Atalanta pulls out a rag and shoves it towards Medea. “Here.”</p>
<p>Medea snatches the rag quickly, like she thinks Atalanta will change her mind. She clutches it tightly to her chest. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Don’t,” Atalanta growls.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Zeus’ wrath nearly sinks them.</p>
<p>Lightning flashes across the dark sky as towering waves rise up and then slam down, threatening to shove the <em>Argo </em>and all her crew down into the depths of the sea. Winds scream. Wreathed in licks of white flame, the mast snaps like a twig. Three men go overboard. Dead. Drowned. Gone. Huddled up, Atalanta wraps herself around her oar. If she lets go, she’ll die too.</p>
<p>When the storm is done and they’ve been driven so far off course Atalanta hardly recognizes the stars, the <em>Argo</em> herself speaks. The murder of Absyrtus has angered the gods. Before they can return to Iolcus, they must sail to Aeaea, the island of Circe, and there beg the daughter of the sun and the dark to purify them.</p>
<p>Atalanta’s comrades mutter that they had nothing to do with the murder. Why should they be punished? It was Medea, the foreigner, who brought this on them.</p>
<p>Jason adopts the mutterings and demands of Medea, “<em>Why did you kill him? This is your fault.</em>”</p>
<p>Medea seems as if she’ll shrink. Then she changes her mind and stands her ground. Both feet planted on the swaying deck of the ship, she snarls back, “It was him or you.” Fury dances in her eyes. “You’re not a king yet. ”</p>
<p>Jason starts to take a step back, but then he turns his step back into turning his back. He snaps at the crew for chattering like women. He orders Ancaeus, the helmsman, to chart a course to Aeaea.</p>
<p>Aeaea is a long way from Arcadia.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When the island of Aeaea comes into sight, the sun is rising behind it. White cliffs shoot up from the turquoise sea. Lush carpets of vegetation sprawl out across the land, leaving vines trailing down towards the salty waters. A towering palace dominates the vista.</p>
<p>Castor leans against the ship’s rail, straining to get a better look at the sight. “Gods,” he breathes. “Paradise. I could live there the rest of my life.”</p>
<p>Pollux shakes his head. “But…”</p>
<p>“We’d never see Helen again,” Castor finishes, turning to his twin. “Can you imagine never seeing Helen again?”</p>
<p>Behind them, Orpheus sighs beautifully. “Alas, my betrothed Euridice dwelleth not there.”</p>
<p>Watching the men from her bench, Atalanta frowns. Euridice? Wasn’t he waxing poetic about Calais a month ago?</p>
<p>“You could…” Pollux starts.</p>
<p>“Go get her and come back,” Castor suggests.</p>
<p>Thoughtful, Orpheus hums—and the single note is gorgeous.</p>
<p>Together, the Dioscuri turn towards Atalanta. As one, “What do you think?”</p>
<p>Atalanta eyes the island. It looks suspicious. She doesn’t trust it. There’s a sense of <em>wrongness</em> that lingers over the whole place. Gruffly, “Needs more trees.”</p>
<p>Pollux and Castor roll their eyes. Together, “Women.” One of them, to Orpheus, “Maybe Euridice wouldn’t like it.” “Not enough wildlife,” the other concludes.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>As it turns out, there is quite an array of wildlife on Aeaea.</p>
<p>Jason and Medea lead a column of crew up from the <em>Argo </em>and the island’s low harbor to the shining palace perched on the cliffs above. They follow a wide paved path—the white stones beneath their feet are so perfectly cut Atalanta couldn’t slip a blade of grass between them, and they show no sign of wear from the battering of feet or hooves or cart wheels. At a distance, Atalanta sees lions, wolves, even a few striped tigers stalking about alongside the squadron of sailors, never coming close enough to quite threaten, but always looming.</p>
<p>A bit nearer to the palace are several pens with fat pigs. There’s no one to guard the livestock though, and Atalanta wonders why none of the predators stalking about haven’t decided the swine would be a good lunch. Is there something wrong with them? Or it’s just magic, she supposes.</p>
<p>Walking at the front of the column of crew, Medea, under her breath to Jason, “She’s going to offer meat. Tell them not to eat any meat.”</p>
<p>Jason bristles. “Why would I—”</p>
<p>“Just do it,” Medea hisses.</p>
<p>“I don’t take orders from you,” Jason snaps back.</p>
<p>“It’s important,” Medea presses.</p>
<p>Unswayed, Jason, “Not if you can’t say why.”</p>
<p>Medea’s voice turns icy. “Why is my word not enough?”</p>
<p>Atalanta and the rest of the crew gradually begin to hang back. No one wants anything to do with the dispute. For her part though, Atalanta thinks it best not to eat any meat. She thinks her comrades, Jason aside, would agree. If even Medea won’t eat it, it’s probably something grisly. Like people.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Golden-eyed Circe is an oddity. When the crew first come up to her palace, she’s welcoming. Smiling warmly, she’s almost <em>overly</em> hospitable, though she chills somewhat when Medea demands she promise to do no harm. Still, she invites all the weary sailors into her house and lays out a feast for them in her courtyard. Exotic fruits, roasted fish, rich wine, and platters laden with meat.</p>
<p>For a moment it looks like Jason might try a bit of the meat, just to spite Medea, but he doesn’t.</p>
<p>Uncomfortable, unnerved, the crew sit silently on the marble paving stones of the courtyard of Circe’s palace, giving even the fruits a wide berth, while they wait for Medea to finish whatever consultation she’s having with her aunt elsewhere in the house.</p>
<p>Trying to fill the silence, Orpheus sings a hymn to Hestia. It’s not a terribly exciting hymn, but his voice is pretty enough that it mostly distracts from the anxious waiting. Mostly.</p>
<p>Orpheus is singing the same hymn a third time when Circe emerges from the depths of the palace. Tall and regal, unbound raven hair cascading down to her shoulders, she commands the courtyard simply by existing in it.</p>
<p>Jason rises to his feet, but shining Circe dismisses him with a lazy wave of her hand. Golden bangles on her wrist clink softly. She hardly even looks at him. “No,” she says. Condescension drips rich. “Not you.”</p>
<p>There’s just enough time for a prickle of foreboding to run down Atalanta’s spine before Circe turns towards her.</p>
<p>“You,” Circe says. “Come with me.”</p>
<p>There’s a moment of expectant silence, everyone waiting to see what Atalanta will do. Atalanta can feel her comrades silently willing her to go with Circe—that’s how any of them will get home. And she can feel Circe simply assuming she’ll stand and follow.</p>
<p>There is only one goddess whom Atalanta will follow without question. Circe is not Atalanta’s Lady. But the <em>Argo </em>needs Circe.</p>
<p>Shoulders tense, Atalanta stands. She trails Circe out of the courtyard and deeper into the palace. In silence, tall Circe leads them through utterly empty corridors, pristine halls devoid of dirt, dust, and life. Their footsteps sound loud on the marble floors. The farther they go, the… <em>lonelier </em>the place seems.</p>
<p>At last, they come to a balcony overlooking a sheer drop down a cliff face to the brilliant turquoise sea. A table has been set with lunch for three. Medea sits perched in a chair, picking at a plate of grapes and fish. As Circe and Atalanta approach, Medea glances up. To Atalanta, “Don’t worry, the fish is safe.”</p>
<p>Circe wrinkles her nose. “I wouldn’t trick lawful guests,” she says. “My niece is too suspicious.” Sweeping forward, she takes a seat at the table and then gestures for Atalanta to sit as well. As Atalanta stiffly complies, Circe props her elbows on the table and folds her hands together under her chin. She fixes her golden gaze on Atalanta, near to unblinking. Like a large cat. “So tell me about this Jason, little hunter.”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s eyes narrow. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She can feel Medea watching her closely. Circe is playing games, of the kind that Atalanta is unaccustomed to and uninterested in playing. She shrugs. “He’s a man.”</p>
<p>“And what of you?” Circe asks. “What are you then?”</p>
<p>Atalanta growls, the weighty sound rumbling deep in her chest. She doesn’t growl at her Lady. Circe isn’t her Lady. “I’m a bear,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>At this, Circe laughs. It’s a sort of cold, hollow laugh. Vaguely threatening. “You’re not a bear,” she says, dismissive. Then she tilts her head to the side and squints, as if she’s inspecting something. “Maybe a lion?” Circe mutters. “No… not a lion… but you’re not… hm.”</p>
<p>If Atalanta wanted to run, she could run. She can always run. But where would she run to?</p>
<p>“I am who I am,” Atalanta snaps.</p>
<p>“Well,” Circe says, leaning back in her seat. She chuckles to herself. “That’s one way of putting it.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When Circe dismisses Atalanta, she returns alone to her comrades in the courtyard. They all press her to say what transpired. Bristling, Atalanta rebuffs them. The only important thing is—</p>
<p>“She’ll help.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta is not amenable to participating in the ceremony, but Circe and Medea both insist, and Atalanta misses her den in Arcadia keenly.</p>
<p>Under a dark moon, Atalanta hands Circe a gold-bronze knife.</p>
<p>Circe uses the blade to cut her own hand, drawing a long red line.</p>
<p>Atalanta watches, filled with a dark fascination, as Circe anoints Medea with blood, murmuring words with an inhuman tongue. Lit by flickering torches, the crimson shines bright on Medea’s pale skin. Enraptured, Atalanta cannot look away and cannot close her eyes. Despite the gore, Medea is beautiful.</p>
<p>Medea and Circe say the ritual is a cleansing, but Atalanta’s certain that they are wrong.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Before the <em>Argo</em> and her crew depart, Circe draws Atalanta aside. She does it with a touch of her fingers to Atalanta’s shoulder and the slightest tilt of her regal head. They go together to a corner of Circe’s courtyard, away from the others.</p>
<p>For a moment, Circe, though she looks to be a woman in her prime, feels very old. Medea has said that Circe is a daughter of gods. Circe may be a daughter of gods. She is also a goddess in her own right.</p>
<p>“Scion of Leto,” Circe says. Her voice is honey and silver. “I’ve fixed your ship. I’d ask a boon in return.”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s brow furrows. “Please,” she says. She chooses her words carefully. Circe is divine, and so she must be addressed with respect, but Atalanta is not pledged to her. “I beseech, speak plainly.”</p>
<p>Circe regards Atalanta with her golden eyes, weighing her words. “My niece is fully grown, but she has not yet grown into herself. This Jason of Iolchus will be nothing but grief to her.”</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. “I know.”</p>
<p>With a sweeping gesture, Circe suggests the departing crew of the <em>Argo</em>. “None of these will watch over her. Will you?” Circe pauses, holding her grip on the exchange, but letting the silence draw out for a time. Then, “Consider it.”</p>
<p>Before she leaves solid land for the ship once more, Atalanta whispers a prayer to Artemis.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Their next trial is the sirens. They see the sirens, beautiful winged women rising and swooping in the distant sky, before they hear them. And when they hear them—</p>
<p>They sing of a forest. A great stretch unending expanse of trees, covering rolling hills and high mountains. Atalanta inhales deeply and instead of salt, she smells fallen leaves and green moss. On her tongue, she tastes coming rain. She runs fingers along the ancient bark of an oak, towering high and sheltering everything beneath it, ground dappled with sun and shade. Ahead of her and off to the right, a branch snaps as a doe and her faun amble by.</p>
<p>And in all of it,  she feels and tastes and hears more keenly than ever before, all the better to embrace the burning certainty in her core that she <em>needs </em>the singers, <em>needs </em>to leave her station at the oar and cross the deck, climb the rail, leap—</p>
<p>The voice of Orpheus and the notes of his lyre overpower the siren’s song.</p>
<p>Dazed, Atalanta finds herself standing alongside the rest of the crew, crowded at the port side rail of the <em>Argo</em>, the side closest to the sirens circling above them like birds of prey. She looks from side to side. All are…</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>Butes is missing. And so is Medea.</p>
<p>Medea is accounted for easily enough. She’s hanging back from the rest, only a few steps away from her seat of cushions by the helm of the ship. Her pale face betrays nothing of her thoughts.</p>
<p>But Butes is lost. Orpheus’ song is a poignant dirge, and he continues to sing until they’ve sailed long past the danger.</p>
<p>Atalanta lasts three nights before her curiosity drives her to demand, “How did you stay apart from the rest of us? Witchcraft?”</p>
<p>“I’m a woman,” Medea replies, as if the answer was obvious.</p>
<p>The answer, specifically <em>that </em>answer, was not obvious. Atalanta pushes down the growl building in her chest. She’s had enough of this conversation.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When the <em>Argo </em>skates between Charibdys and Scylla, Atalanta grinds her teeth and rows harder than she’s ever rowed before. The exertion blissfully takes her mind off… off of everything else.</p>
<p>Once they’ve escaped the twin dangers though, Atalanta’s peace doesn’t last. Her thoughts return to troubles. And troubles return to her.</p>
<p>Ever since their flight from Colchis, Atalanta has pulled her oar alone. This means there’s space on her bench for another. One afternoon when there’s a strong wind in the sail and no reason to row, Medea helps herself.</p>
<p>Atalanta, slouched over her oar, eyes her new companion. “What do you want?”</p>
<p>“My aunt had words with you,” Medea says. She keeps her voice low. The men on the benches in front and behind them probably can’t hear her words over the creaking of the ship, the slide of ropes, and the steady seawind. “What did she say?”</p>
<p>Atalanta weighs the satisfaction of telling Medea to go away against the annoyance of an argument. The latter wins out. Atalanta replies in a voice as low as Medea’s. “She wanted me to protect you.”</p>
<p>Medea’s tense reply comes as a hiss. “I don’t need protection.”</p>
<p>Atalanta eyes Medea.</p>
<p>She doesn’t believe Medea.</p>
<p>But Medea isn’t her problem.</p>
<p>She doesn’t care.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Soon, they come within sight of the isle of Crete, lit softly by dawn light. It’s been a week since they took on fresh water and they need to replenish their stores. Everyone’s happy to see land. As soon as they near the shore, however, a great boulder crashes into the waves not ten paces’ distance from their helm, raising such a splash that everyone—even Medea—is soaked. Responding to the danger, the helmsman quickly directs the <em>Argo</em> farther from the shore once more.</p>
<p>The problem becomes clear soon enough. A towering man who shines like bronze stands on the beach of the island. Beside him are a number more stones large enough to sink them should any connect. The brazen man hefts them as if they weigh nothing, guarding the shore as well or better than any navy could. As the ship tries to sail around to another beach, the man on the shore walks along, keeping pace, watching them.</p>
<p>Bracing himself against the rail of the prow, Jason stares at their adversary and chews his lip.</p>
<p>A still sodden Medea, robe clinging to her shapely body, approaches him. “I’ll handle of this,” she announces. “Get me to shore.”</p>
<p>Sparing Medea a glare, Jason scowls. “We can’t get to shore, woman,” he says. “That’s the problem.”</p>
<p>Medea’s hands clench into fists. “I didn’t say <em>us</em>,” she hisses. She points to the small rowboat they keep for ferrying supplies from shore to deeper waters when the <em>Argo </em>is anchored. “Get <em>me</em> to shore.”</p>
<p>Jason’s face is a mask of frustration. A range of emotions, from anger to anger to fear and back to anger, pass over his features. Finally, he points at Atalanta, seated at her bench. “You row her.”</p>
<p>Atalanta bristles. She doesn’t get up from her bench. “Why me?”</p>
<p>“He thinks you won’t soil me,” Medea drawls. “Is he wrong?”</p>
<p>A nervous chuckle passes through the crew.</p>
<p>Atalanta tamps down on a growl. If they make it to shore, at least she’ll be free of Jason. “Fine.” She takes her spear from its place under her bench and stands. “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>It takes Atalanta and two other crew to heave the small rowboat down into the waves. Atalanta leaps down after it at once, before it can drift away on wind and current. They don’t normally use it so far from shore. It’s not built for open seas. Atalanta settles into the small vessel and adjusts the oars. There’s enough room in the boat for two oarsmen, and indeed usually there are two. It will be a hard task to ferry Medea to the beach alone.</p>
<p>Atalanta startles when Medea also jumps down from the <em>Argo </em>to land in the rowboat.</p>
<p>“Why so surprised?” Medea asks, a challenge brewing in her eyes.</p>
<p>Shrugging her shoulders in an attempt to disguise her annoyance, Atalanta answers, “I didn’t expect you to jump. I thought you’d fly.”</p>
<p>Somewhat surprised, Medea lets out a brief burst of laughter. In the month they’ve been at sea caged in the same wooden prison, Atalanta’s hasn’t heard Medea laugh. Not since Colchis. Her laughter is melodic and bright, like a stream of liquid gold, shining. Orpheus would pass from envy if he heard.</p>
<p>Atalanta sets her back to the oars, pulling them through the seawaves towards the shore. As the sun tracks higher and higher in the sky, rowing makes for hard work. At least, by magic or by luck or by fate, the brazen man on the beach doesn’t try to sink them on their approach. Perhaps they’re too small a target for him to concern himself with. His mistake.</p>
<p>As soon as they’ve reached water shallow enough, Medea slips out of the boat into the water and wades the rest of the way to shore, leaving Atalanta to finish bringing the vessel in by herself. Atalanta’s ire simmers. If something happens to Medea while she’s still trying to ground the boat in the sand so it doesn’t drift away, there’s nothing she’ll be able to do to help.</p>
<p>Not that she’d help Medea.</p>
<p>As Atalanta rows, she twists about, trying to keep an eye on her charge.</p>
<p>With every step, Medea sways in such a way that Atalanta’s gazes drifts towards Medea’s hips. Her purple dress, soaked from the splash earlier and now from wading through the shallows, clings to her in such a manner that it shows the curves of her body beneath. Gracefully, she raises a hand to draw the man’s attention. Ever elegant, she doesn’t wave or jump, she simply gestures, and that’s all it takes to cast her spell. The man does nothing to ward off her approach. When she’s a few paces away, he even takes a step towards her.</p>
<p>Atalanta tenses, ready to jump out of the boat and dash forward at any sign of danger—for all the good it won’t do.</p>
<p>Calm, Medea continues on, and the man makes no movement that suggests harmful intent. The brazen man stands at least twice as tall as Medea, but at her direction he kneels down before her, bringing their faces together. The polished bronze of his skin flashes in the sun. His eyes are smooth metal and his blocky face is frozen in an eternal dismay.</p>
<p>It seems that Medea says something, but Atalanta is too far away to make out words. Unable to speak with his cast mouth, the man nods. Then Medea takes a step backwards and bends down. She reaches for the brazen man’s heel.</p>
<p>And that’s that.</p>
<p>Medea removes a nail from the man’s heel and molten ichor spills out of him. A tap on his chest sends him falling backwards onto the sandy beach. Leaving the man to bleed out, Medea turns and strolls back to Atalanta and the rowboat. Proud smile on her face and dangerous gleam in her eyes, “I handled it,” she announces.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Medea having killed the island’s defender, Jason brings the <em>Argo </em>closer to the shore. While the ship comes in, Atalanta and Medea wait in silence.</p>
<p>Atalanta is uncomfortable.</p>
<p>Medea starts out at ease, smug, even, but as the <em>Argo </em>nears, she grows tense, and then gets tenser.</p>
<p>When the <em>Argo </em>finally anchors close enough to the beach for the crew to disembark, Jason leaps down into the shallows and splashes his way to Medea. He cuts a strong figure, handsome even, as he approaches. As he comes up onto land, “Are you hurt?”</p>
<p>Atalanta takes a soft step back. She sinks a bit in the sand. Jason isn’t talking to her, he’s talking to Medea. There’s a note of strain in his voice. Does he care? Truly?</p>
<p>Medea smiles. Not a cold smile, but a warm one. Something hopeful hangs about her. “No,” she says. “Are you pleased?”</p>
<p>Jason glances at the fallen body of the bronze guardian of the island. For a moment something dark haunts his face. But then it’s gone. “Of course,” he replies.</p>
<p>Jason reaches out and pulls Medea into an embrace.</p>
<p>Atalanta looks away.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>By early afternoon, everyone’s ashore who’s coming ashore. The crew organize into parties to venture out looking for fresh water and food to bring aboard. Others will stay to guard camp. Atalanta joins the hunters. They see a stand of trees not far from the ship and they think that will be where they’ll have the most luck.</p>
<p>It’s been months since Atalanta ran among trees chasing deer. At the first sight of a buck, a great beast with the purest coat of white, she takes off, easily outstrips her companions without even noticing. Fast, she plunges into the deep parts of the forest where no path leads. The smells of crisp leaves, sunlight mixed with shade, growing things—they fill her nose and make her whole. Her legs, stiff from so long rowing, loosen and carry her confidently over rocks and fallen trees and all other obstacles.</p>
<p>The buck leads her on a grand chase, always just out of reach, always just darting behind a tree before she can fire an arrow from her bow. It’s not until the sun has set and darkness has fallen, moon replacing sun, that the animal falters and she finally fells her prey with a shot that pierces its neck clean through. It falls heavily, blood pooling among the old leaves covering the forest floor.</p>
<p>Filled with the joy of the chase, Atalanta lets out a victorious shout. Sweat drips from her brow, gliding in rivulets down her face. After running all day, her breath comes ragged. The buck wasn’t the only one growing tired.</p>
<p>It’s only then, as she stands relishing her triumph, that Atalanta perceives how far she’s strayed from her companions. She is in a wild forest, and so she is not afraid. But she is uneasy. Crete is distant from Arcadia; this land is not her own. And, at the very least, having other crewmen with her would ease the task of carrying her prize back to the ship. It can’t be helped though. After giving herself a few minutes to rest, Atalanta shakes her head and steps towards the fallen buck to get to work.</p>
<p>The snap of a bowstring and the hiss of an arrow in flight freeze her in her tracks.</p>
<p>A silvery dart flies past before her, barely missing her, and strikes the ground a few spans away. It pierces a black scorpion clean through. Even stabbing through scorpion and into earth, the arrow shimmers with a holy radiance.</p>
<p>Heartbeat pounding in her ears, Atalanta slowly turns whence the arrow came. Atalanta turns toward the light.</p>
<p>Artemis stands, tall, untouchable, bow nowhere to be seen, leaning against a nearby tree. Her arms are crossed. Her eternal eyes bore into Atalanta. Her face betrays nothing of her thoughts.</p>
<p>Atalanta stands, quiet. Her Lady will speak first.</p>
<p>For a long time Artemis does not speak. Then, instead of words, she pushes off from the tree and moves forward towards Atalanta. With one hand she reaches out as if to caress Atalanta’s cheek, but before her fingers brush against mortal skin, she pulls back.</p>
<p>Atalanta blinks.</p>
<p>The vision is gone.</p>
<p>In its place, there’s only an absence in Atalanta’s chest, as heavy as grief.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The forest itself parts for Atalanta when she carries the buck back to the ship. The distance that took her a day to run shortens to but a few steps. The crew of the <em>Argo </em>are happy to see her, and happy she’s brought such a sizable kill. The other hunters succeeded in only a few rabbits. As she’s done the work of bringing the buck back, others do the work of butchering and cooking it. As they work, Atalanta, weary, takes a cup of watery wine and moves to sit a bit back from the fire. The beach is as much sand as it is rock, and the sand, she knows, will creep into unpleasant places, but it’s not safe to wander to better ground and leave the ship unattended at night.</p>
<p>Uninvited, Medea arranges herself next to Atalanta. She offers Atalanta a leg of rabbit, from one of the earlier catches. Atalanta eyes the meat. Hunger isn’t enough to push her to peace though. “What do you want?”</p>
<p>Medea withdraws the offering and bites into it. Then, speaking with her mouth still full, and, still, somehow, with a note of authority, “Do you hate women so much you’ll abide only the company of men?”</p>
<p>Atalanta startles. “What?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t stutter.”</p>
<p>“I don’t hate women,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>“Just me then,” Medea concludes, correctly.</p>
<p>“You killed a child. Your <em>brother</em>.”</p>
<p>Medea shifts uneasy. But she meets Atalanta’s eyes. Her gaze burns with defiance. Wolf-like. “I did what I had to do.” She pauses. Then, “You follow Jason too.”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s thoughts flicker back to the forest. “I do not,” she says.</p>
<p>“Don’t you?” Medea challenges. With her fingers, she twirls the bit of rabbit leg that remains on her spit.</p>
<p>A growl rumbles in Atalanta’s chest. “I do not,” she repeats.</p>
<p>“Why?” Medea asks.</p>
<p>“I follow my Lady,” Atalanta replies. The memory of her vision in the forest swirls. The memory of… of how <em>fleeting</em> it felt.</p>
<p>Medea sniffs. “No,” she says. “Why do you follow him?”</p>
<p>Atalanta hesitates. She looks away from Medea. She looks out to the dark sea. Somewhere across the waters is her den in Arcadia. And somewhere further is Calydon. “He looked like someone else,” she says.</p>
<p>“Is that enough?” Medea asks.</p>
<p>Atalanta snatches the rabbit from Medea and bites into it. She chews. It’s slightly overcooked. But at least it’s not fish. She swallows. Then she shoves the remainder back at Medea, who takes it. “No.”</p>
<p>“You’re still here,” Medea says.</p>
<p>“Home is a long way to swim,” Atalanta replies.</p>
<p>“You’re still here talking to me,” Medea says. Is she clarifying what she said before? Adding to it? She’s playing word games, Atalanta thinks.</p>
<p>Atalanta shifts, preparing to stand. Medea’s right. She is still here on the beach talking to Medea. She can fix this.</p>
<p>Medea reaches out quickly, getting a hand on Atalanta’s shoulder before she can rise. “Wait.”</p>
<p>Atalanta pauses, but says nothing. She stares at the hand resting on her shoulder. It rests lightly.</p>
<p>“Don’t go,” Medea says.</p>
<p>Frowning, Atalanta brushes Medea’s hand off. Medea doesn’t resist. “Why?”</p>
<p>A flash of frustration crosses Medea’s face. Then it smooths to something else. “I… Don’t go?” She clears her throat. Then she gestures down the beach towards Jason and his companions, drinking around a fire while Atalanta’s kill turns on the fire. “I prefer your company to theirs.”</p>
<p>Atalanta weighs her options.</p>
<p>Then, she settles. “I’m done talking to you,” she says.</p>
<p>Medea sounds almost amused. “That’s fine.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>From Crete, the <em>Argo </em>heads north, following the pole star. They sail on calm seas for several days, the ship’s prow cutting glassy waters. Spirits are high. Home seems close. The salt wind is steady and there’s little need to pull oars.</p>
<p>Lazing, Admetus comes to share Atalanta’s bench. “I’ve been thinking of settling down when we get back,” he says. “King Pelias has a beautiful daughter, Alcestis—I think she’d make a good wife for me.”</p>
<p>Atalanta offers a sort of uninterested grunt. She doesn’t actually want him to leave though. Sailing is boring. So she bites. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Admetus says. “She’s beautiful.”</p>
<p>Atalanta looks to her companion. She waits.</p>
<p>“And, ah,” Admetus continues. “She’s loyal.”</p>
<p>“You can tell that by looking at her?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>“No,” Admetus says. “But I spoke with her once. And she seemed virtuous.”</p>
<p>Atalanta slouches over her oar, resting her elbows on it, and her chin on her hands. Talking once doesn’t seem much better than seeing from a distance. “Is loyalty what you look for in a wife?”</p>
<p>“It’s part of it,” Admetus says. “Looks, loyalty, maybe love if you’re lucky.”</p>
<p>Atalanta uses her head to indicate the general direction she thinks Medea probably is. Near the helm somewhere. With Jason. “Will she be a good wife?”</p>
<p>Admetus is quiet. He coughs a bit. “She has the first two,” he says. Then he makes the sign against the evil eye.</p>
<p>Atalanta grunts. No point in having that conversation again. She changes the subject. “So Alcestis,” she says. “What about Apollo?”</p>
<p>This gets a shrug from Admetus. “You and I are mortals. A man can’t remain a bachelor his whole life,” he says.</p>
<p>Atalanta thinks of unreadable Artemis, standing with her arms crossed. “Apollo sounds like a very understanding god.”</p>
<p>Admetus chuckles. “He doesn’t expect more of me than he does of himself.” Admetus hums to himself. Then he clears his throat. Then, “Say, bear friend, how do you live like you do?”</p>
<p>“I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>Admetus waves a hand around in the air, vague, unhelpful. “You know,” he starts. “In a cave. Abstaining from life.”</p>
<p>“I like my den,” Atalanta says. It’s a good den.</p>
<p>“And you’ll be back there soon,” Admetus replies. “What will you do then?”</p>
<p>Atalanta hasn’t got an answer that Admetus will find satisfactory, so she doesn’t bother trying to offer one.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It’s not long after the <em>Argo </em>puts out from Crete that they finally come in sight of Jason’s Iolchus.</p>
<p>Orpheus sings a suitably stirring ballad of victory.</p>
<p>The welcome at the pier is less than welcoming.</p>
<p>Armed guards stand ready at the shore. Their spearpoints glitter in the midday sun. The dour captain who leads them looks disappointed to see the ship and its crew. In Atalanta’s estimation, he’s muscular enough, but he’s not terribly imposing. If it comes to a fight, he and his guards will lose. The <em>Argo</em>, after all, is a ship full of heroes.</p>
<p>Jason, full of confidence, strides forward over the planks of the pier with his dead sheep draped over his broad shoulders. “Acastus,” he greets the dour captain. He grins and holds his arms out as if for a welcoming embrace. Behind him, Atalanta and the other Argonauts are uneasy. They all went adventuring, for all their various reasons. But none of them joined Jason to kill countrymen.</p>
<p>The captain nods, wary, acknowledging Jason. He doesn’t move to reciprocate the embrace. “Cousin,” he says. “We heard you’d died. Several times.” He sounds decidedly disappointed.</p>
<p>“Those reports were greatly exaggerated,” Jason replies smoothly. He lowers his arms. “I’ve returned with the golden fleece.”</p>
<p>“I can see that,” Acastas replies sourly. He eyes the shining trophy. “My father will be… pleased.”</p>
<p>“And how is <em>my</em> father?” Jason asks. For all his friendly manners, there’s a current of bitter anger weaving about in his tone.</p>
<p>“About the same as when you left, except he’s a few months older now,” Acastas says. “I suppose you’ll want to see him.” Then looks over to the assembly behind Jason. He sniffs. “And I suppose your men… and women… will want lodging.”</p>
<p>“They are guests,” Jason says.</p>
<p>Acastas sighs. He turns and beckons. “Well, come on then.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The welcome of Pelias, king of Iolcus, is nothing like the lavish celebration Aeetes put on for the crew of the Argo. Where Aeetes boarded them all in the palace of Aea, Pelias finds rooms for some of them in his own house, but puts up the rest with citizens of the polis. Perhaps this is their just due for Jason’s treatment of Aeetes’ house.</p>
<p>In any case, Atalanta is one of those selected to stay in the royal seat.</p>
<p>Probably because she’s not a man.</p>
<p>And she’s put to share a room with Medea.</p>
<p>Probably for the same cause again.</p>
<p>Nevermind that Jason claims Medea as his betrothed.</p>
<p>That Jason claims Medea as his betrothed—that’s probably why Medea gets a bed in the room and Atalanta gets a straw mat laid out over the stone floor. Or maybe Medea’s royal title still carries some weight, even here. The straw mat does nothing to mitigate the hard cold of the stone, and Atalanta would much prefer to just sleep in the dirt in one of the forests outside the city. But if she leaves now...</p>
<p>“Why do you get a room in the city?” Atalanta demands of Admetus. They’re out in the agora at evening together. All the pleasantries are unfolding up at the palace, hour by excruciating hour, but Atalanta can’t stand being there. It feels like a tomb.</p>
<p>Her friend shrugs. “Probably because I don’t matter,” he says. “I’m just a prince.” He flips a trader a bronze bit and snatches up a snack of roasted fig.</p>
<p>“I’m just a hunter,” Atalanta complains.</p>
<p>“There are biting critters in my bed,” Admetus replies. He pops his snack into his mouth, the whole thing in one absurdly large bite. Talking around a mouth full of fig, “I’d never treat guests like this. Just be a <em>grateful </em>hunter. Have you seen Alcestis at the palace?”</p>
<p>“Maybe,” Atalanta says. What does Alcestis even look like? Other than loyal? “I wasn’t paying attention.”</p>
<p>“Well, if you do see her, could you put in a word for me?” Admetus asks. “Do a friend a favor?”</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs.</p>
<p>It’s not a no.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta stays out in the city with Admetus until the sun starts to set. Then, grudgingly, she parts ways with him and walks back to Pelias’ house.</p>
<p>The king is holding an obligatory feast for his nephew returned, but Atalanta doesn’t have the inclination to join. She takes some bread and cheese and retreats to the room she’s been told to share with Medea.</p>
<p>Medea is already there. She’s sitting perched on the wide windowsill of the room, back leaning against the jamb, silhouetted by the red-gold sun behind her. Barefoot, she’s left her sandals on the floor under the window. As Atalanta enters, Medea looks over. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”</p>
<p>Moving to her mat on the floor, Atalanta sits, crossing her legs. She takes a bite of her cheese, chews, swallows. “Who else?”</p>
<p>Medea answers with a shrug.</p>
<p>“Why aren’t you with Jason?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>Medea shrugs again.</p>
<p>Determining it’s clear Medea’s not interested in conversation, Atalanta finishes her dinner and lies down. She closes her eyes. Of course, that’s when Medea decides to become interested in conversation.</p>
<p>“I miss Colchis,” Medea says, softly.</p>
<p>Atalanta considers saying nothing in reply and pretending she didn’t hear, or that she’s already asleep. Then she feels guilty for considering it. Not that she has much of a response to offer. “I miss my den,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>“I can’t go back.”</p>
<p>Atalanta opens one eye to look at Medea. She’s still sitting in the window. Now that the sun has passed below the horizon and isn’t directly behind her anymore, it’s easier to make her out. Medea doesn’t look half as young, Atalanta thinks, as she did on the banks of the Phasis. Her presence feels heavy in a way it didn’t a few months ago. “You don’t like it here,” Atalanta concludes.</p>
<p>Medea shakes her head. But then she says, “No, I do. I do like it here.”</p>
<p>Atalanta sits up. She swipes a hand through her hair. “You do or you don’t?”</p>
<p>“<em>You </em>don’t like it here,” Medea says, eyes boring into Atalanta.</p>
<p>“I don’t like cities,” Atalanta replies.</p>
<p>“I watched you run in Aea,” Medea says. “Every morning, from the palace. When you run, are you running somewhere? Or are you just running?”</p>
<p>It’s an odd question. Atalanta’s never really thought about it. “Just running,” she says.</p>
<p>“Before Jason took the fleece from the grove,” Medea starts. “I hadn’t run since I was a child. You look happy when you run.”</p>
<p>“I am.”</p>
<p>“Is that why you do it?”</p>
<p>Atalanta shakes her head. She doesn’t think that’s right. Maybe a little right. Not entirely right. “It’s who I am.”</p>
<p>Medea’s eyes are deep and dark like wells, and unfathomable. “I can see that,” she says. She looks away, turning her gaze out the window. The noise of the city is slowly quieting as night falls, and it’s just possible to hear the soft rhythm of the tides on the distant beach. “When we passed the sirens,” Medea says. “What did you hear in their song?”</p>
<p>Atalanta squints at Medea. It’s a sudden turn for the conversation. “A forest,” Atalanta says, plainly. She pauses. She supposes no one else would have been lured to the rail of the ship by a song of a forest. “What did you hear?”</p>
<p>“Home.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It’s several days before Pelias brings his brother out from whatever cage he’s been keeping the old man in.</p>
<p>Aeson, Jason’s father, has been living in the dark parts of Pelias’ palace for surely as many years as Jason himself has known the sun. And Aeson looks like it. Every shuddering breath looks like it costs him. Thin, weak, elderly, his eyes are so clouded and his ears so faltering that he doesn’t recognize his son until Jason leans over, putting his mouth by Aeson’s ear, and shouts his introduction.</p>
<p>When he realizes his son has come home though, despite his infirmity and his long imprisonment, a lightness comes over him.</p>
<p>Watching from the edge of the courtyard with the other crew that Jason has asked to guard him in his uncle’s palace, Atalanta can see that father and son exchange words, but she can’t make them out. It’s none of her business anyway. Eventually, Jason beckons for Medea, who goes to the two men. Jason presents her, and Aeson seems happy.</p>
<p>How relieved he must be that his son has become a man and found a wife. Such a man as his son has become. Such a wife as this man has found.</p>
<p>Aeson says something and Medea laughs—that golden laugh, full of warmth.</p>
<p>Atalanta bites her bottom lip.</p>
<p>Another day, she thinks. Then she’ll take her leave and return to her own home. Away from all of this.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>That night, Atalanta notices when Medea never comes to their shared room to sleep in the bed. So Atalanta waits. And she waits. And she waits. And waits.</p>
<p>Medea finally comes to bed at the crack of dawn, looking a bit tired and immensely pleased with herself. Atalanta gets the sense something has happened, and that she doesn’t want to ask. So she doesn’t ask. She glares, then lays down on her mat, and promptly goes to sleep.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Youth having been restored, Aeson looks a lot like Jason. The resemblance is uncanny. Though—maybe resemblance is what happens between a father and a son. Atalanta wouldn’t know.</p>
<p>Jason is overjoyed. Of course. He holds Medea close, kisses her, pours praises on her.</p>
<p>But when Pelias, himself getting along in his years, sees Aeson with his spring returned to him, the king looks near frightened to Hades. His dark skin goes pale and he quickly excuses himself. He’s a man with many sins and much to fear.</p>
<p>Medea is moved to her own room in a much nicer part of the palace at once.</p>
<p>Having her own room, and her own bed, Atalanta tells herself, is why she doesn’t leave as she’d planned. What can another night hurt.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>A lot, as it turns out.</p>
<p>After Medea tricks Pelias’ daughters into murdering him, Medea, Jason, Aeson, and everyone associated with them are run out of Iolcus on short order. Many of the former crew of the <em>Argo </em>disperse, including Admetus. Atalanta is sorry to see him go, but Pheraei isn’t far from Iolcus and the quest for the golden fleece, such as it was, has come to an end.</p>
<p>They say their goodbyes. Admetus promises hospitality if she ever finds herself near his house. Atalanta promises she’ll not neglect to visit him should she ever go that way. She doesn’t think she’ll ever go that way though. She doesn’t think she’ll ever see him again—and she thinks she’s sorry for it.</p>
<p>On the other hand, Atalanta’s path south is the same as the one Jason and Medea have chosen for themselves, so she’s trapped on the road with them. She could leave the road in favor of the wilderness, she supposes. But that would only delay her return to Arcadia. She determines to put up with the company for a while.</p>
<p>But that doesn’t mean she has to interact with them.</p>
<p>Except that—</p>
<p>“Why?” Atalanta growls at Medea from across the dying embers of the campfire. The rest of their band have drifted to sleep already.</p>
<p>“So Jason could become king,” Medea retorts, testy. She has her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms around her knees, her chin on top of them. “It’s all he wants. All he wanted.”</p>
<p>“That didn’t work,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>Medea near to snarls. The flickering remains of their fire glimmer reflected in her dark, kohl-painted eyes. “I can see that.”</p>
<p>“He wouldn’t do the same for you,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>“Of course not,” Medea replies. Scorn drips from her voice. “He’s a man.”</p>
<p>“Did he ask you to?” Atalanta asks. Anger stirs deep in her chest.</p>
<p>Medea looks away, avoiding Atalanta’s gaze. She shrugs.</p>
<p>Atalanta glances over to where Jason and his father lay sleeping. They haven’t stirred at all at the noise of Atalanta and Medea’s conversation. Atalanta lowers her voice anyway. “This won’t end well for you. You should leave.”</p>
<p>Medea’s response comes in a hiss. “That’s easy for you to say.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Mighty Corinth stands between Iolcus in Thessaly and Atalanta’s Arcadia. As soon as they arrive, Jason goes straight to the palace of that city and its king, Creon, son of Lycaethus. Jason asks for hospitality, and Creon gives with an open hand. Aeson did him a favor once, a long time ago. Or maybe it was Aeson’s father. In the cities, a man’s deeds and his debts redound to his sons, for as many generations as it takes to forget. And Creon has much to give. Corinth has been prosperous in recent years on account of thriving trade and victories in war.</p>
<p>Atalanta has misgivings about staying with Jason, Medea, and Aeson in the palace, but she’s been ignoring her misgivings about everything for months now and there’s no reason to stop now.</p>
<p>At least, unlike in Iolcus, when she and Medea are set up in the same room, there are two beds.</p>
<p>One night, Atalanta decides. One night to rest and then she’ll be on her way. Then she’ll finally put a stop to her lingering. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says. Late afternoon light streams through their window.</p>
<p>“No,” Medea replies. She’s sitting on her bed, across from Atalanta, who leans against the far wall.</p>
<p>Atalanta arches an eyebrow. “No?”</p>
<p>“Stay for the wedding,” says Medea. She uses her regal tone of command. Probably out of habit. Some habits are hard to break. She doesn’t command Atalanta.</p>
<p>Atalanta snorts in reply. “He can’t make you a queen.”</p>
<p>Medea looks away. Then she scoffs. “I haven’t come all this way to be a maid.”</p>
<p>This draws a shrug from Atalanta.</p>
<p>“Besides,” Medea starts. She pauses. “I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”</p>
<p>“There’s an entire world,” Atalanta says. “Go to Athens. Go to Sparta. Go to Ithaca.”</p>
<p>Medea shakes her head. “I don’t know anyone there. At least, here, I know Jason.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta stays for the wedding.</p>
<p>She walks in the procession, but not with the couple in the chariot. Creon’s son, Hippotes, carries the torch for Jason. And Creon’s young daughter, Glauce, accompanies Medea.</p>
<p>Jason and Medea look like a happy couple.</p>
<p>They’d look happier if Jason would stop looking at Glauce.</p>
<p>The wedding night goes well. There’s blood on the sheets in the morning. Atalanta wonders if Medea killed a goat.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Medea asks Atalanta to stay longer. Atalanta declines.</p>
<p>She’s been away from her den long enough. She packs her things, picks a morning, takes up her spear and bow, sets out to leave.</p>
<p>Jason and Medea meet her in Creon’s great courtyard, by the threshold of the palace.</p>
<p>Still infinitely pleased with his wedding and all the wedding gifts that his host has given him, Jason attempts to send Atalanta along with her weight in gold. She isn’t light. The gold sits in a cart, with a donkey already set in the yoke.</p>
<p>Atalanta rebuffs him. What use does she have for gold?</p>
<p>Standing self-assured in another man’s home, Jason—ever himself—won’t accept Atalanta’s refusal. She could offer the gold to Artemis, he says. She could build an entire temple to the goddess, that’s how much this gift would be worth in the tiny town of Maenalus. He’s seen the place with his own eyes. They’re poor. His gold would make Atalanta like a queen. How can she not understand?</p>
<p>Oh, Atalanta understands him.</p>
<p>Her answer is her answer. And she’s come to say goodbye, not to listen. She played her part in his quest. And now it’s done. Turning, she says again, “No.”</p>
<p>From the corner of her eye, Atalanta sees movement. Jason—</p>
<p>Jason puts a hand on her shoulder to pull her back. “No, you—”</p>
<p>Snarling, Atalanta rounds back on Jason, swiping his hand away. Her mind sweeps her back to a ship in darkness. Drawing herself up, she takes a step towards him. He takes a step back. Good. He should know his place. He—</p>
<p>“Wait.”</p>
<p>At Medea’s command, Atalanta pauses. She and Jason both pause. They look to Medea.</p>
<p>Dressed in crimson and silver, Medea looks every inch the queen she’ll never be. For a moment, Atalanta is reminded of Circe. A daughter of gods. A goddess in her own right.</p>
<p>But not Atalanta’s Lady.</p>
<p>Satisfied that neither Atalanta nor Jason will renew their attempt at a brawl, Medea turns away from them both and approaches the gold in the cart. She lifts her hands. Her back is to Atalanta, but perhaps she moves her lips as well, whispering some spell.</p>
<p>The gold shifts, melting like ice melts to water. And then it <em>shifts</em>.</p>
<p>When Medea finishes, she turns to Atalanta. In her hands is a shining golden bow, half Atalanta’s height with a beautiful curve. Engravings too fine for Atalanta to quite make out run the length of bow’s limbs, belly and back. Even the string, impossibly thin, is gold.</p>
<p>Medea glances down at her work. She frowns. “No,” she says. “I think…”</p>
<p>The silver on Medea’s robes slithers, serpentine, over the crimson cloth. It winds into a coil, then runs down her arm, over the back of her hand, to spread out over the bow, changing its nature to suit Medea’s intent. Gold to silver.</p>
<p>Medea holds the bow out. “I think this is more appropriate.”</p>
<p>Atalanta blinks. Entranced, she stares. She… she wants the bow. It’s gorgeous. She already has a bow, one that’s served her very well for a long time. She can’t explain to herself why she wants this bow in Medea’s hands now except that she does.</p>
<p>“I…” Atalanta starts.</p>
<p>“A gift,” Medea says. “From…” She glances at Jason. Her pause drags very long. “Us.”</p>
<p>“I…” Atalanta starts again. She lets out a short cough, clearing her throat. Then she reaches out and takes the bow. It doesn’t have the weight of metal at all. It feels like moonlight. The engravings—nymphs on a hunt spiraling up and down the length of the bow—give textured grip to the otherwise smooth limbs. It feels right in Atalanta’s hands.</p>
<p>Jason, always happy to intrude, “We hope you’ll accept our gift.”</p>
<p>To Atalanta’s ear, Jason’s earnestness recalls the tone he took with Aeetes in Colchis. To Medea, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>Regal, Medea nods. “I hope it serves you well. May your goddess protect you on your journey.”</p>
<p>Atalanta takes her leave.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>As Atalanta walks from Corinth back to the Menalon range, she feels alone in a way she didn’t feel the last time she made the trek. Even when the family of wolves comes to travel with her, she can’t shake the sense that she is somewhere other than the thick of a city or the crowded deck of a ship. She’s returning to seclusion.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When Atalanta finally reaches her den, she finds it in disarray. Sticks and leaves clutter the floor. It’s rained recently. Everything is damp. If her mother saw...</p>
<p>Though she’s tired from her travels, Atalanta sets down her things and starts cleaning. From time to time she’ll glance at Medea’s bow, sitting unstrung in a corner. As evening falls, in the gloom of Atalanta’s home, the bow shimmers, bringing light to the dark.</p>
<p>When Atalanta finally finishes putting her home in order, the sun has long since set. She’s hungry, but, more than she’s hungry, she’s exhausted. Finding a patch of ground, she lays herself down and shuts her eyes.</p>
<p>Sleep comes immediately.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta wakes to the smell of cooking meat. Her stomach growls. Opening her eyes, from the quality of light, she thinks it’s dawn, or just before dawn.</p>
<p>Standing stiffly, she stretches, willing herself awake. She lumbers to the entrance of her den.</p>
<p>Outside—</p>
<p>It’s not dawn. It’s dusk. She’s slept a whole day. She yawns.</p>
<p>Some ways down the slope of her mountain home, Atalanta sees a sizeable cooking fire. A great leg of deer roasts on a spit. Accompanied by a handful of nymphs, Atalanta’s Lady holds her court under a rising moon.</p>
<p>At Atalanta’s approach, Artemis waves the nymphs away. She gestures for Atalanta to sit at her side by the fire. She says nothing. She watches Atalanta with silver eyes.</p>
<p>Wordless, Atalanta takes the place her Lady has bid her to. She glances at the fire. And at the deer. The deer looks very good. Atalanta’s stomach growls again. Atalanta never growls at her Lady. Her stomach can’t help itself.</p>
<p>Sheepish, Atalanta looks towards her Lady. Artemis regards Atalanta. Amusement flickers across her face. “Eat,” she says.</p>
<p>Atalanta need not be told twice. As a cub, her bear-mother always encouraged her to eat more. She was too skinny to survive the winter, in the bear’s opinion. For all that she ate though, she never filled out quite like the bear hoped. With her knife she cuts away a hunk of charred meat.</p>
<p>Artemis waits for Atalanta to have her fill before speaking again. “You’ve seen more of the world now than most ever will. What do you think of it?”</p>
<p>Atalanta frowns. She’s seen Corinth. Thessaly. Iolchus. Cyzicus and Mysia. The Symplegades. Charibdys and Scylla. Even the far-off Colchis. And Calydon.</p>
<p>What does she think of the world?</p>
<p>“I like it here better,” Atalanta replies, shrugging.</p>
<p>“Show me your new bow,” Artemis says.</p>
<p>Refusal. For a brief moment, Atalanta thinks about refusal. She doesn’t want—</p>
<p>She doesn’t want to share her gift. Not with anyone. But everything that’s hers is her Lady’s. How can she even want to refuse…?</p>
<p>Atalanta feels her Lady’s eyes on her, and she knows her Lady sees her heart. She stands. She tries to bury her shame by not thinking about it.  “Of course,” she says. Graceless, she turns back up to her den.</p>
<p>In her den, the bow is right where she left it, unstrung, still glowing softly. Still beautiful.</p>
<p>Atalanta starts by taking Medea’s silvery bowstring from her pack. Then, forcing any misgivings away, Atalanta gently takes up the bow as well and carries it down the slope outside her den. She takes her place at her Lady’s side once more and offers up the bow.</p>
<p>Artemis takes the offering. She turns it this way and that in her hands, running fingers over the engravings, examining it from every angle. Finally, “You haven’t drawn it yet.”</p>
<p>Atalanta shakes her head. She hasn’t.</p>
<p>Artemis holds out a hand, palm up. “Give me the bowstring.”</p>
<p>Atalanta sets the coiled string in her Lady’s hand. Briefly, she brushes against marble skin. A shiver runs down her spine.</p>
<p>If Artemis sees Atalanta’s shiver—she does, she must, she sees everything—she ignores it. She stands. With a practiced motion, she loops one end of the bowstring around the lower nock, then, bracing the bow against her leg and the ground, and pushing down on the bow’s upper limb, loops the other end of the bowstring around the upper nock. When she’s strung the bow, she offers it back to Atalanta. She draws a silvery arrow from her own quiver and offers that as well.</p>
<p>Atalanta stands and takes the bow and the arrow both. “Will you name a target?”</p>
<p>Atalanta’s Lady gestures. Some two hundred paces off, across the rocky, treeless slope of the mountain, a bit of white fire flashes to life.</p>
<p>Nocking her Lady’s arrow, Atalanta raises the bow. In her chest, her heart beats steady. She sights the white flame. She takes a breath. In a single smooth motion, Atalanta draws.</p>
<p>The bow, although light in Atalanta’s hands, has a very heavy draw. It could be a weapon of war, driving arrows through bronze shields, if Atalanta chose to use it that way.</p>
<p>There’s little to no wind. With such a strong bow and using one of her Lady’s arrows, Atalanta senses she needs to make only minor adjustments to her aim to account for the distance of her target.</p>
<p>She breathes in.</p>
<p>She breathes out.</p>
<p>She releases the arrow.</p>
<p>The arrow flies true, passing clean through Artemis’ fire and continuing on another fifty paces or so.</p>
<p>Atalanta lowers the bow. The bow, shooting it—the bow feels like an extension of herself.</p>
<p>“A good shot,” Atalanta’s Lady says.</p>
<p>Atalanta sits down at the fire again, laying the bow on the ground beside her.</p>
<p>“You learned from the best,” Artemis continues.</p>
<p>A smile tugs at Atalanta’s lips. “I did.”</p>
<p>Artemis inclines her head. “It’s a good bow,” she says. “It will serve you well.”</p>
<p>Understanding her Lady’s meaning, and her Lady’s benediction, Atalanta, “Thank you.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It takes several weeks, but eventually Atalanta remembers how to live in solitude again. She settles back into the same rhythm she’s had all her life but for the ventures she made out to Calydon and then to Colchis. It’s simpler in the forest. No men. No women. Just the trees, the birds, the wolves and deer, the nymphs. Sometimes her Lady, when her Lady chooses to grace her.</p>
<p>It’s a good life.</p>
<p>It is.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It’s been just over nine months since Atalanta left Corinth when the messenger arrives wearing Creon’s mark.</p>
<p>Medea has been asking for her.</p>
<p>The last time a messenger came to Atalanta’s den, she told him to go back to Iasus and tell the old man to come himself.</p>
<p>She can’t very well do that to Medea. Not now, anyway.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes up her spear, her pack, her <em>bow</em>, and sets out.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The palace of Corinth looks exactly like it did almost a year ago. No surprise. It’s built mostly out of stone. Stone doesn’t change very fast.</p>
<p>When Atalanta arrives, Jason greets her. He’s a bit rounder, a bit softer, than he was when they sailed together. He’s not made out of stone, Atalanta supposes. In manner though, he’s the same as he ever was.</p>
<p>He asks her how she’s been.</p>
<p>“Fine.”</p>
<p>He asks her if he can get her anything.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>He asks her—</p>
<p>“I came for Medea,” Atalanta says. “Where is she?”</p>
<p>Jason hesitates.</p>
<p>Medea is in the women’s quarters. Somewhere. Of course Jason wouldn’t know where. He doesn’t go into the women’s quarters. Someone will show Atalanta the way. Someone other than Jason.</p>
<p>Atalanta follows a servant through the half-familiar corridors of the palace. They’re a bit like Circe’s halls, she thinks. Less lavish though. And a touch less lonely—maybe. Still inferior, Atalanta thinks, to the forest.</p>
<p>The servant takes Atalanta to a large room on an upper floor. Medea is resting in a heavily cushioned bed. Her dark hair is longer than it was before. And her belly has swollen to the size of—</p>
<p>Of… of a baby, Atalanta supposes.</p>
<p>Medea looks up as Atalanta enters the room. She seems surprised. “You came.”</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs. She sets her things down by the doorway of the room. She sets her bow down gently. She crosses her arms, then leans back against one of the doorposts. “You asked for me.”</p>
<p>Medea nods. The corners of her lips turn up.</p>
<p>Arms still crossed, Atalanta waits for Medea to answer the unspoken question.</p>
<p>The ghost of a smile on Medea’s face fades, slowly.</p>
<p>Suddenly self-conscious, Atalanta shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She uncrosses her arms. She looks away from Medea.</p>
<p>“Artemis…” Medea finally starts. At the mention of the goddess, Atalanta’s eyes snap back to Medea and she starts to cross her arms again. Medea notices and pauses.</p>
<p>Atalanta forces her hands back down to dangle at her sides. She clears her throat. “Go on,” Atalanta prompts.</p>
<p>“She watches over mothers in childbirth. And children.”</p>
<p>Atalanta is silent.</p>
<p>“I’ve made offerings, but she has no reason to favor me,” Medea says.</p>
<p>“You killed your brother,” Atalanta replies bluntly.</p>
<p>“I hoped you would… intercede for me.”</p>
<p>Atalanta says nothing.</p>
<p>“I don’t want this child to die,” Medea says, quiet. “I don’t want to die.” Her eyes are wide. Scared. But Medea has pride. It’s part of who she is. Too much pride to ever beg. Atalanta wouldn’t want her to.</p>
<p>“You killed your brother,” Atalanta says again. She shakes her head. She speaks slowly. “I don’t… I can’t… It’s not my place.”</p>
<p>“If you ask, she’ll listen.”</p>
<p>Maybe.</p>
<p>“You told me on the ship,” Atalanta starts. “That you’d take it back if you could.” She meets Medea’s eyes and searches them for… for something. She sees the remorse. That’s not what she’s looking for though. What is she looking for?</p>
<p>“But I can’t,” Medea says.</p>
<p>The words hang in the air.</p>
<p>A simple truth.</p>
<p>Atalanta pushes off from the doorframe. She bends down to rummage in her pack. Eventually she finds what she’s looking for. A small figure of her Lady, carved from driftwood.</p>
<p>Wordlessly, Atalanta hands it to Medea.</p>
<p>As Medea takes the figure, her fingers brush against Atalanta's. Unlike the figure, unlike Atalanta's Lady, Medea's skin has warmth. For a fleeting moment, Atalanta feels warm as well.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Waiting for Medea’s baby is excruciating.</p>
<p>Any.</p>
<p>Day.</p>
<p>There’s always a midwife hanging about just around the corner. The palace is stifling.</p>
<p>Atalanta and Medea eat together in Medea’s room. Fish. Corinth is on the sea. So of course there’s fish. Atalanta’s bear-mother would have been so pleased.</p>
<p>Atalanta digs a fishbone out from between her teeth and sets it aside. “How do you stand this?” she demands. She waves a hand towards where she knows a midwife is lurking. “Being watched all the time?”</p>
<p>Medea fixes her with a look. “Do you really have to ask?”</p>
<p>Well. When Medea puts it like that.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Are you…” Atalanta starts. She frowns, thinking of what it is she’s trying to say. “Are you looking forward to…” she gestures to Medea’s overlarge stomach. It’s normal, she’s heard, for women to look forward to these things.</p>
<p>Medea sets a hand on her stomach. She does it gently. “I think so,” she says. “I’d like a daughter.”</p>
<p>Atalanta stares. What an odd sentiment.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>When Medea finally goes into labor just before midnight, three days after Atalanta arrives, Atalanta leaves the palace. Surrounded by farmland, civilized Corinth is too far from the wilderness for Atalanta’s taste. She goes to a painted marble temple dedicated to her Lady.</p>
<p>It’s not as large as some of the others in the city—Corinth is dedicated to Zeus—but it’s still the largest temple Atalanta has ever set foot in. Crossing the threshold, she’s filled with a strange sense of awe. It’s not awe of her Lady though. It’s a mortal awe, an awe of the men who piled up so much marble then gilded their masterpiece til it shone even in the weak light of torches on a cloudy night. It’s a sacrilegious awe. Atalanta pushes it out of her mind.</p>
<p>A young man, beard just starting to grow in, dressed as a priest meets her just inside the sanctuary. Behind him stands a burly guard carrying a spear. Between the two of them, they block her way.</p>
<p>The priest inspects Atalanta. “Where is your offering?” he asks.</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs, showing her empty hands. “I haven’t got one.” She doesn’t like his tone. It reminds her of Jason.</p>
<p>“Then what are you doing here?” the priest sneers. “The goddess hasn’t got time for penniless beggars.”</p>
<p>Atalanta takes a step forward, menacing. “Get out of my way.”</p>
<p>The priest takes a step back. He draws himself up though. As if he could stop Atalanta. “You wouldn’t dare lay a hand on a priest of Artemis.”</p>
<p>Atalanta squints. Is this what her Lady expects from her followers in cities? Offerings of coin? Surely not. Who is this boy to deny her entrance to her Lady’s house? She takes another step forward. “Move.”</p>
<p>The priest reaches out to shove Atalanta back. Before he can touch her though, she grabs his arm, pulls hard, and uses his own momentum to throw him towards the door of the temple. Screaming in fright, he hits the stone floor hard and rolls, going the rest of the way past the threshold.</p>
<p>Glaring, Atalanta rounds on the guard. The guard takes one step back, then two. Then he shrugs. “Bouphagos should know better than to pick fights he can’t win,” he says. “Go ahead.”</p>
<p>Ignoring the two of them now, Atalanta strides forward into the torch-lit sanctuary. She crosses the central cell of the temple all the way to the small adyton, the furthest recess of the building. In the adyton, a painted statue of her Lady, draped in gold cloth, towers at nearly twice Atalanta’s height. Gifts of gold and purple cloth and all sorts of incense and gems are stacked up all around the statue’s feet.</p>
<p>The statue doesn’t really capture Artemis, Atalanta thinks. The arms are a little too thin. The face is a little too pale. The statue, made of wood and marble, has a sort of vacant expression that Atalanta would never associate with her Lady.</p>
<p>But this is her Lady’s temple, so if the goddess is anywhere in Corinth, it would be here.</p>
<p>Standing before the statue, Atalanta looks up. She clears her throat. “My Lady.”</p>
<p>Normally Atalanta addresses her lady in the open air of the wilds. Inside the adyton, her voice sounds unsure, and it resonates strangely off the walls of the small chamber. Everything in this temple feels dead. And the piles of rich offerings—</p>
<p>What was it that the priest said?</p>
<p>“My Lady,” Atalanta starts again. “Medea asked me to intercede with you. I’m sorry. I don’t have anything to give.”</p>
<p>But everything she has is already her Lady’s.</p>
<p>She doesn’t know what else to do next, so Atalanta steps back and goes to sit down on the floor of the adyton, resting her back against the wall. She continues to stare up at the statue’s blank face. The stone wall, the stone floor, they’re both cool. A bit like her Lady’s touch. Maybe her Lady is here after all.</p>
<p>“You didn’t ask,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>The statue still doesn’t move.</p>
<p>“But I think she does matter to me. I don’t want to regret her.”</p>
<p>Atalanta stays in the adyton the rest of the night.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The midwives say it was one of the hardest childbirths they’ve tended to. But Medea survives. And so does her child.</p>
<p>Atalanta stays for the naming.</p>
<p>Alcimenes.</p>
<p>Aeson chooses the name, and Jason approves it.</p>
<p>Atalanta watches Medea dote. She watches Jason beam.</p>
<p>A new father with a new heir.</p>
<p>How fortunate to be blessed with a son.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes her things, leaves the city, heads back to her den where she belongs.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>This third time that Atalanta walks from Corinth to the Menalon, she doesn’t just feel alone. She feels lonely.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>“I’m sorry about your priest,” Atalanta says. She and a troop of nymphs are scattered around a forest clearing, idling away the day’s twilight hours. Atalanta herself is sprawled on her back in the soft grass. Her Lady sits next to her.</p>
<p>Artemis regards Atalanta cooly. “Don’t say words you don’t mean.”</p>
<p>Atalanta looks away towards a particularly grand tree. With full summer foliage, it’s properly green and leafy. She shrugs. “I’m not sorry about the priest. Should I be?”</p>
<p>Artemis stands. She offers Atalanta a hand up. Her eyes dance with amusement. “I am here,” she says. “And not with him.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>A year passes.</p>
<p>Then two.</p>
<p>Atalanta keeps to herself.</p>
<p>When Iasus comes back, he leaves his guards behind this time. He looks frailer than before. He was old then. He’s older now. He still wrings his hands a lot.</p>
<p>Before Atalanta can stop him, he kneels down in the rocky dirt outside her den and clasps her knees. “Please,” he says. “Listen to your father’s request.”</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. It’s by divine law, not by man’s law, that she’s bound to hear him out. But before she can nod, Iasus starts—</p>
<p>“The armies of Sparta are pushing north. Please, you know Corinthians, they have armies—I’ve heard you know them. Go with my messenger and plead on our behalf.” His voice is thick with desperation. Tears well up in his eyes.</p>
<p>Atalanta waits for him to let go of her knees, but when it’s clear he won’t without her answer, she offers, “I’ll think about it.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>That night, Atalanta sits on a boulder outside her den by the edge of the forest and waits.</p>
<p>Her Lady comes at dusk. Gesturing, she indicates for Atalanta to make room for her on the boulder as well. Atalanta obliges and her Lady takes a seat with her.</p>
<p>“You’re troubled,” Artemis says.</p>
<p>“How are you a goddess of children and childbirth and mothers,” Atalanta starts, “If you’ve never had a child yourself?”</p>
<p>Artemis reaches out, sets her fingers under Atalanta’s chin, and gently tilts Atalanta’s face up so that mortal eyes meet divine silver. “I have you,” Artemis says.</p>
<p>“What is Iasus to me?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>“What would you have him be to you?” Artemis asks in reply.</p>
<p>Atalanta pulls away from her Lady so that she can bring her knees up to her chest and wrap her arms around them. “Not what he is.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta goes to Tegea.</p>
<p>The largest town in Arcadia is wealthy, as these things are reckoned in the hinterlands of the Peloponnese. It could even be described as thriving. Unlike Corinth and Colchis, however, Tegea has no stone walls, only a wooden palisade.</p>
<p>Atalanta passes all sorts of merchants on the road into the settlement. None of them try to stop her and speak with her. She probably looks too poor for them to bother.</p>
<p>At the palace of Iasus, the doorman tries to turn her away. The king has no time for vagrants.</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. If Iasus hadn’t wanted her in Tegea, he shouldn’t have asked her to come.</p>
<p>It’s only because a slave, the first messenger Iasus sent to Atalanta’s cave years ago, recognizes her that the doorman lets her pass. She glares as she crosses the threshold of the house. She dislikes being <em>allowed </em>to do anything, much less enter her own house.</p>
<p>And it is her house.</p>
<p>Iasus has no children but her.</p>
<p>Standing in the courtyard, Atalanta cranes her neck, looking all around. The house has seen better days, but the better days weren’t so long ago, she thinks. The paint on the lintels is faded, but nothing has fallen into disrepair. The inhabitants of the house don’t look underfed. Underneath all the dust and faded paint, the house is built of stone.</p>
<p>Iasus orders a small feast to celebrate Atalanta’s return. His wife—not the woman who gave birth to Atalanta, Clymene passed years ago—plays hostess by ordering the servants to set out the food and wine. Otherwise, she has little to do with the homecoming.</p>
<p>For the entire feast, Iasus repeats the same apologies in different words, again and again and again. At one point he cries. By the time the moon is high, Atalanta is happy to escape by retiring for the night.</p>
<p>The next morning, Atalanta departs with Iasus’ messenger to Corinth. The messenger’s name is Hippomenes, and he rides a horse. A horse is offered to Atalanta, but she declines. She’s never ridden a horse. She’ll just run.</p>
<p>Halfway to Corinth, Hippomenes dismounts and announces he’ll run with Atalanta.</p>
<p>A few miles on, and his endurance flags. He can’t keep up. He gets back up on his horse.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>As Iasus predicted, Creon is far more receptive to a Tegean accompanied by Atalanta than he would have been to a Tegean alone.</p>
<p>Woodenly, Atalanta makes the proper introductions, then she takes her leave of the king and the messenger. Her work is done.</p>
<p>As Atalanta leaves Creon’s hall, Medea is waiting for her in the courtyard. She seems… unwell. The air of youth she had about her in Colchis has given way to a sort of tired, harried look. But she still offers Atalanta a small smile. “I hardly had time to thank you last time you were here,” she says.</p>
<p>“I don’t like cities,” Atalanta says. She glances backwards towards Creon’s hall. “I came as a favor to someone else.”</p>
<p>“Will you stay a few days though?” Medea asks. “As a favor to me?”</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Medea spends most of her time in the women’s quarters of the palace. Her work is weaving and the like. It’s boring.</p>
<p>Alcimenes is walking and talking now. Walking and talking just enough to find trouble if his minders aren’t careful.</p>
<p>“Is this what life was like in Colchis?” Atalanta asks. They’re sitting together at the edge of the women’s courtyard. They watch Alcimenes as he plays in the dirt.</p>
<p>Medea’s shoulders rise and fall gracefully in a shrug. She waves her hand, flicking her wrist to mime brushing away dust. “More or less.”</p>
<p>“You left Colchis,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>“I had Jason,” Medea replies. “Now I have a husband and a son.”</p>
<p>As if sensing he’s being talked about, Alcimenes looks up from his pile of dirt and waves a grubby hand at his mother. Medea smiles and waves back.</p>
<p>Alcimenes resembles his mother, as Atalanta reckons. He has dark hair—but so does almost everyone Atalanta knows. His skin is pale though, like Medea’s people in Colchis. Paler than Atalanta’s by far. She’s rarely ever considered how dark she herself is, except when she’s with Medea.</p>
<p>How odd that children of the sun should look as though they’ve never seen his face. </p>
<p>“When you asked me here before,” Atalanta starts. “You’re powerful. Why did you ask for me?”</p>
<p>Medea frowns. Her brow wrinkles slightly. “My magic is for destruction,” she says. “I can transform. I can move life from one vessel to another—it’s hard but not impossible. But creating life is for the gods alone.”</p>
<p>Atalanta recalls Medea dressed in crimson and silver in Creon’s courtyard as Atalanta prepared to leave Corinth. She recalls what she thought then. “Who told you that? Have you ever tried?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>Medea scoffs. “My father was as much a god as a man. He said that the gods strike down mortals who are too presumptuous, who fly too close to the sun. Your Lady has done it often enough.”</p>
<p>Atalanta supposes Medea isn’t wrong.</p>
<p>“Why did you come?” Medea asks.</p>
<p>This gets a shrug from Atalanta. She repeats what she said then. “Because you asked.”</p>
<p>Medea doesn’t say anything. Like she’s waiting—for more of an answer? Does Atalanta have more of an answer to give?</p>
<p>“I…” Atalanta starts. She hesitates. She turns her head to fix Medea with a penetrating stare. Like if she stares hard enough, maybe she’ll see something she hasn’t seen before. Again, “Why did you ask for me?”</p>
<p>Medea shifts about, seemingly uncomfortable under Atalanta’s stare. She avoids meeting Atalanta’s eyes, focusing her gaze instead on a spot just over Atalanta’s shoulder. Then she turns her head to look over at her son. “I didn’t want to be alone.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Iasus’ messenger finds some success. Corinth will send aid to Tegea and the Arcadians if Sparta advances too close.</p>
<p>Hippomenes continues on north and east towards Athens.</p>
<p>Atalanta goes south to her den.</p>
<p>Alone.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Another year goes by.</p>
<p>Then another.</p>
<p>But time passes differently in solitude.</p>
<p>Some days, Atalanta will run her fingers along the back of her silver bow and think about the world outside her mountains.</p>
<p>News from far off comes in dribs and drabs.</p>
<p>Things like—</p>
<p>Peleus, the princeling Atalanta wrestled before the <em>Argo</em> set off, inherits Phthia, marries a nymph, has a son.</p>
<p>Aeson dies in a boating accident.</p>
<p>The Eurydice that Orpheus would always sing praises to dies on their wedding day. Orpheus himself goes missing soon after.</p>
<p>Things like that.</p>
<p>Atalanta hears word of a great contest for the hand of Helen of Sparta in marriage. Kings, princes, and heroes from every corner of the Peloponnese and beyond are all descending on the house of Tyndareus with gifts. Many of Atalanta’s comrades from Calydon and the <em>Argo </em>are going.</p>
<p>Not Jason, of course. He’s already married.</p>
<p>And Atalanta decides not to go either. She’d like to see Admetus again, she supposes. Or did he ever succeed with Alcestis? But putting up with so many men at once, and for no purpose, is an unappealing prospect. And she has no use for a wife, even if this Helen is as beautiful as Castor and Pollux always claimed.</p>
<p>And what is a wife anyway?</p>
<p>From what Atalanta’s gathered from Medea, a wife is an unhappy person.</p>
<p>When Atalanta asks her Lady why people marry, Artemis shrugs her shoulders. She has no interest in the question, and she has no answer.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It’s on a whim that Atalanta makes the trek to Tegea. Iasus receives her happily. He wears his hopes on his sleeve. He wants her to come to Tegea to stay. She’s not interested in doing that. She avoids him as best she can.</p>
<p>Instead, Atalanta seeks out the woman Iasus married.</p>
<p>She’s a small woman, about Iasus’ age. Although she’s still strong enough to carry water up from the city fountain and to work a loom, she has started to decline in her years. Atalanta goes with her to the agora, carrying baskets for her as she shops.</p>
<p>“Why did you marry him?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>Iasus’ wife looks at Atalanta, taking her in from head to toe. Her eyes narrow slightly. Then, “You wouldn’t understand.”</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. “Why not?”</p>
<p>Iasus’ wife shakes her head. She turns back to the trader she’s haggling for a measure of grain with. When she finishes and the grain is added to the basket Atalanta is carrying, she says, “You don’t need anyone to take care of you.”</p>
<p>“Does he take care of you?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>A smile pulls at the woman’s lips. “Yes,” she says. “And if we’d had any children…” She sighs, shakes her head, moves on to the next trader to buy vegetables.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Iasus hears that Atalanta’s been asking about marriages and seeks her out.</p>
<p>Apparently there are many men who’d love to have her as their wife. Hippomenes in particular is taken with her. And then maybe Iasus might have grandchildren. A grand<em>son</em>.</p>
<p>In stony silence, Atalanta leaves Tegea.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Medea’s messenger has pitched camp on Atalanta’s mountain when she returns. He’s been waiting a week for her.</p>
<p>Medea is expecting again.</p>
<p>Atalanta spends a night in her den, and then she’s off.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The carved driftwood figure of Atalanta’s Lady sits on the windowsill of Medea’s room in Creon’s palace. Entranced, Atalanta approaches it. She runs a finger along the slope of one of the figure’s shoulders.</p>
<p>“I’m glad you came,” Medea says from her bed.</p>
<p>“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>“Not really,” says Medea. “But I’m still glad you’re here. I just thought you’d be here sooner.”</p>
<p>“I was in Tegea,” Atalanta replies.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Looking for something.”</p>
<p>“Did you find it?”</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs. “Not really.”</p>
<p>Medea is quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Still standing by Medea’s window, Atalanta looks out. She sees a vast expanse of rooftops. “It is what it is,” Atalanta says. Even as the words leave her mouth, to her own ears, her response sounds incomplete. She looks back to Medea. She starts to frown, but stops herself. Hesitant, “But... thank you.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>This time, Atalanta stays with Medea during the… ordeal.</p>
<p>She’s never seen a human baby being born before.</p>
<p>Wolves. Bears. Deer. Not humans.</p>
<p>It’s… bloodier than she expected.</p>
<p>And there’s a lot of screaming.</p>
<p>It’s unsettling.</p>
<p>Maybe that’s why Jason is off on the other side of the palace, drinking.</p>
<p>Medea clutches the little figure of Artemis the whole time in one white-knuckled hand. With her other hand, she clings to Atalanta's wrist with a bruising grip. Atalanta covers Medea's hand with her own.</p>
<p>When it’s all done and everyone is cleaned up, Jason names his second son Tisander. It’s a very manly name. Almost as soon as the naming is done though, Jason is off again. The servants tell Atalanta he spends most of his time staying in the graces of Creon and Creon’s children, Hippotes and Glauce. Glauce in particular favors him. Now that Aeson is dead, Jason has to sing for his supper.</p>
<p>Atalanta stays with Medea two weeks after the naming. It’s odd how weak Medea is in the days following Tisander’s birth. She spends a lot of time resting.</p>
<p>Wolves don’t rest after giving birth. But, Atalanta thinks, Medea is not a wolf.</p>
<p>While Medea lays in bed, Atalanta keeps an eye on Alcimenes. He’s a bit quieter now than he was a few years ago when he was first learning to talk. A bit more like his mother, a bit less like his father. He shows Atalanta one of his favorite toys—a child’s bow. Atalanta corrects how he holds his elbow when he draws it.</p>
<p>Only when Atalanta is satisfied that Medea is steady on her feet does she decide to leave again.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta cherishes all the time her Lady spends with her.</p>
<p>She cherishes the least that time that’s spent bathing with nymphs in lakes during the long summer days.</p>
<p>The nymphs do an awful lot of giggling and splashing one another. Especially the naiads. The oreads and dryads do it too, but not as much.</p>
<p>When Atalanta was a cub, a few naiads got it into their watery heads that sneaking up on her as she paddled around in their lake and pulling her under would be funny. Neither Atalanta nor her bear mother was much amused. Atalanta’s Lady, watching from a distance, smiled and told the nymphs to tease Atalanta less—but she never told them to stop.</p>
<p>Now that Atalanta is full grown, the nymphs mostly leave her alone, but swimming with them always leaves her feeling a bit on edge. When she’s alone, she’ll venture out to the deeper parts of a lake. With the rest of Artemis’ train, Atalanta stays to the shallows where it’s easier to watch her back.</p>
<p>Artemis herself never joins in the giggling and splashing. And no one ever tries to dunk her. Perhaps she’d take it well. Or perhaps she wouldn’t. Some of the nymphs are daft, but they’re not <em>that </em>daft. At the moment, Atalanta’s Lady is sitting on the shore in the shade. Atalanta takes that as permission not to join the nymphs in the water. Instead, Atalanta makes her way to her Lady’s side. She settles down in the grass and starts picking at it.</p>
<p>“Something is on your mind,” Artemis says. She reaches out and rubs a cool hand across Atalanta’s shoulders and back, drawing a circle with the heel of her palm, digging into a knot of tight muscle.</p>
<p>“I want to be a bear,” Atalanta replies. She’s very tense, she realizes.</p>
<p>Artemis shakes her head. “You only say that because you’re not a bear.”</p>
<p>Atalanta frowns. “That doesn’t change that I want to be a bear.”</p>
<p>“Come here,” Artemis says.</p>
<p>Atalanta pushes herself closer to her Lady, who wraps a cool arm around her. Atalanta leans into her Lady’s side. “Your temple in Corinth felt empty to me.”</p>
<p>“My attention was elsewhere. As you asked.”</p>
<p>“The people in cities worship you differently than the nymphs do here.”</p>
<p>Artemis shrugs. “But they worship me still. Devotion comes in many forms.”</p>
<p>Atalanta shakes her head. “When Jason sacrificed two dozen oxen, you came to my fire instead.”</p>
<p>“I have your heart, not his,” Artemis replies.</p>
<p>Atalanta turns her head, looks into her Lady’s eyes, searching their molten swirl for… something. “What does it mean that you have my heart?”</p>
<p>Artemis presses a kiss to Atalanta’s forehead. “It means that I love you.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta starts to go to Tegea every few weeks. Sometimes she’ll bring a deer with her. The doormen learn her face and never try to turn her away.</p>
<p>When she’s in Tegea, she makes a habit of going with Iasus’ wife to carry water and food back to Iasus’ house. The two of them talk very little to one another, but it’s a comfortable silence between them. They have an understanding.</p>
<p>Iasus, for his part, talks mainly of crops, trade, and occasionally the distant threat of war. The Spartans are always prowling about in the south, but inland Arcadia is a less enticing target than the great coastal cities. He carefully steers clear of any mention of men or marriage.</p>
<p>He’s trying.</p>
<p>From her few interactions with Iasus’ servants, Atalanta thinks she likes them well enough. They seem to like her. She does enough work that it eases some of their burdens. And she knows that they whisper—<em>it’s good there’s an heir</em>.</p>
<p>It doesn’t rest easy with her, this ominous expectation that hangs over the entire house.</p>
<p>But she puts up with it.</p>
<p>For her own sake.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Unlike Corinth, Tegea isn’t large enough to have a temple to every Olympian. There’s a small temple to Zeus and Hera, another small temple to Apollo, and a very large temple to Athena. The temple to Athena attracts many pilgrims. On certain days of the year, Iasus makes great sacrifices there, and the entire town crowds round to celebrate.</p>
<p>There’s no temple to Artemis.</p>
<p>Every time Atalanta comes to visit, she inhabits the same room in Iasus’ house. She takes a corner of the room and makes a small shrine to her Lady in it out of horn and fragrant cypress branches. Bringing the forest indoors isn’t the same at all as going out into the forest, but, for Atalanta’s purposes and for the time being, it’s close enough.</p>
<p>When Iasus sees the shrine, he looks uncomfortable. It’s impossible to miss the way his eyes flicker to the cypress bower, impossible to miss his slight flinch.</p>
<p>Standing square in the center of her room, Atalanta crosses her arms and stares at Iasus in the doorway. “What?”</p>
<p>“A merchant brought some wine from Athens,” Iasus says. “I thought you might accompany me to sample it.”</p>
<p>“No,” Atalanta says. “Why do you look uncomfortable?”</p>
<p>Iasus starts to wring his hands. Noticing though, he stops himself. “Clymene,” he says. “She used to pray to Artemis that…” Empty hands dangling at his sides, he looks away from Atalanta and shrugs. “She used to pray you were alive. And that you’d come home.”</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t know what she was expecting. Not that.</p>
<p>Iasus gives a half shrug. He gestures towards the front of the house. “The wine?” he asks.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Tegea is close enough to a forest that Atalanta can spend her night hunting.</p>
<p>She brings down a stag.</p>
<p>While running, she nocks an arrow, draws Medea’s bow, then lets the arrow fly. It parts the undergrowth and pierces the animal through.</p>
<p>Her Lady leaves her in peace.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>It’s during one of her trips to Tegea that Atalanta hears Jason intends to marry again. Creon has sent Iasus an invitation to the wedding.</p>
<p>As Iasus and his wife discuss whether they’ll make the journey north, Atalanta snarls, “He’s already married. <em>Hera </em>is his patron.”</p>
<p>Furious, Atalanta storms off to Corinth. She runs there. For once, she’s not running just to run, she’s running to a place. To a person.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t look for Medea in Corinth. She looks for Jason.</p>
<p>She finds him drinking with Hippotes and Hippotes’ friends.</p>
<p>As Atalanta enters the drinking room, the first thing to happen is Hippotes objecting to her presence. She shouldn’t be permitted in the room. She’s not a man.</p>
<p>Atalanta seizes a wine jug and hurls it at Creon’s son, sending it sailing just past his ear to crash into the wall behind him, shattering on impact. Deep red liquid splatters down to the floor. Hippotes and his friends flee. They didn’t join the hunt in Calydon. They didn’t sail on the <em>Argo</em>. They didn’t even join the cavalcade of eligible bachelors in Sparta.</p>
<p>Jason stays. Backing away, he raises empty hands. “My friend—”</p>
<p>Atalanta grabs another wine jug and throws this one at Jason. Unlike with Hippotes, she doesn’t aim to miss. Jason has to dodge to the side to avoid being brained. Atalanta’s mind slips back to their brawl as they sailed away from Colchis. Medea isn’t here to protect Jason this time. And maybe this time, even if she were present, she wouldn’t.</p>
<p>Casting her eyes around for something else to throw, Atalanta settles on a low table covered in dried figs and other sweet foods. With a grunt, she picks up the table and flings it in Jason’s direction.</p>
<p>This time he ducks and scrambles forward. Before Atalanta realizes she should avoid him, he gets his arms around her knees.</p>
<p>“I can explain!”</p>
<p>Atalanta growls. But she doesn’t kick him off her. “So explain.”</p>
<p>Jason’s explanation is hard to follow. Money gets mentioned several times. Children once or twice. Creon comes up often. It’s all for the best. He has to do this. At some point he tries to argue that Medea, Alcimenes, and Tisander will be <em>better off</em> this way. Better off without him? Atalanta can hardly disagree.</p>
<p>When faithless Jason finally goes quiet, Atalanta, “Get off.”</p>
<p>Jason lets go of Atalanta’s knees.</p>
<p>Atalanta stalks out of the room.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Atalanta goes to Creon.</p>
<p>He’s old.</p>
<p>And deaf.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Glauce is next.</p>
<p>“Why are you doing this?” Atalanta growls. She’s got Glauce cornered in a corridor of Creon’s palace.</p>
<p>Glauce, young, pretty, dressed in gold and purple, offers an uncomfortable shrug. With her back up against a wall, she can’t back away from Atalanta any more than she already has. She stares at her feet.</p>
<p>“Why?” Atalanta repeats. She’s easily a head taller than Glauce. She knows she’s scaring the girl. Good.</p>
<p>“I need a husband,” Glauce says, defensive.</p>
<p>“This one is taken,” Atalanta snaps.</p>
<p>Glauce shrugs again.</p>
<p>“You’re a princess,” Atalanta says. “There are lots of other men. Marry one of those.”</p>
<p>Glauce answers softly. “But there aren’t very many good men.”</p>
<p>Snarling, Atalanta slams the heel of her hand into the stone wall, only a few hairs shy of Glauce’s head.</p>
<p>Glauce whimpers.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Then, finally—</p>
<p>For a woman in her situation, Medea is very calm. Collected. Cold.</p>
<p>Too cold.</p>
<p>Atalanta finds her in her room, looking out her window at the city below the palace. She wears a black dress, held in place with gold pins. When Medea turns towards her visitor, her kohl-painted eyes are ice. She was a daughter of a king, once. She’s still a descendant of gods. She wears her power draped around her, cloaklike. A shield against the world.</p>
<p>Atalanta stands by the doorway, closed door at her back. For a while, there's silence. As she watches Medea at the window, all the rage that's filled her as she's stormed about the palace leeches away. She's furious. But not at Medea. And, now, more than furious, she's just... tired. And she doesn't know what to do. Medea's marriage is broken. There's no way to fix it. And Medea is broken too.</p>
<p>"I didn't send for you," Medea finally says. Even her tone is ice.</p>
<p>"I came anyway," Atalanta replies. “He's not worth any more lives.”</p>
<p>Unyielding stone, Medea sneers. “This is why I didn’t send for you.” Then, she looks away. She can’t hold Atalanta’s gaze. Her tone remains iron though. “I have to do this.”</p>
<p>“That’s what Jason said."</p>
<p>Medea flinches, but says nothing.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes a step towards Medea. Only a step though. She’s the taller between them. She doesn't want to loom. Not like she did with Glauce and Jason. But she just doesn't want to be so far away.</p>
<p>"Why have you come?" Medea asks. "To tell me to go to Athens? To Sparta? To Ithaca? Back to Colchis?"</p>
<p>Atalanta grimaces. She's not skilled with words. She doesn't have words. Hesitant, she tries to extend a hand, to reach out. Medea jerks back.</p>
<p>"Leave."</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls.</p>
<p>"This is my choice. Mine. You have no right to take it from me."</p>
<p>Atalanta waits, keeping her open hand outstretched. If she just waits long enough, Medea will say something more. Atalanta isn't skilled with words, but Medea is. Medea will change her mind. If only Atalanta waits.</p>
<p>Medea's lips press together in a thin line. She'll say nothing more.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The priest at Artemis’ temple has the sense this time to let Atalanta pass. She doesn’t spare him so much as a glance.</p>
<p>For a while she paces the long hall of the sanctuary. There are others in the hall who’ve come to honor Atalanta’s Lady. They give Atalanta a wide berth.</p>
<p>She feels so…</p>
<p>Helpless.</p>
<p>Eventually Atalanta’s feet take her past a pair of armed guards and into the temple’s adyton. The guards don’t try to stop her. Good for them.</p>
<p>Atalanta goes and sits down against the wall. The same place she sat before. Setting her elbows on her knees, she rests her head in her hands, slipping her fingers into her hair.</p>
<p>Atalanta takes a deep breath in, then releases it. Then, “I want to be a bear.”</p>
<p>Artemis doesn’t answer, but Atalanta can hear her Lady’s voice in her head nonetheless—“You’re not a bear.”</p>
<p>Atalanta suppresses a growl. Her mother taught her better. But her mother never taught her not to repeat herself. “I want to be a bear.”</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>The watchmen call the hours. The day passes.</p>
<p>Atalanta sits. Still.</p>
<p>It’s the longest she’s done this—ever, she thinks. Normally she’s in motion. Even on the <em>Argo </em>she had an oar to pull. Now, she’s still.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>When the sun begins to set outside, Atalanta perceives that she’s not alone. Her Lady is beside her, seated on the floor with her.</p>
<p>Artemis puts an arm around Atalanta’s shoulders.</p>
<p>“You have my heart,” Atalanta murmurs.</p>
<p>“I do,” her Lady replies. “And I always will.”</p>
<p>“Why does it hurt?”</p>
<p>“I’m not the only one who has your heart,” Artemis says. “I never have been.”</p>
<p>“Clymene prayed I’d come home,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>“She did.”</p>
<p>“So did Iasus.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Atalanta swallows. She rips her question out of somewhere deep inside her. It’s painful. “Did you send me back?”</p>
<p>“You know I didn’t.”</p>
<p>For a while they’re both silent.</p>
<p>“Medea?” Atalanta finally asks.</p>
<p>Artemis presses a kiss to Atalanta’s forehead. “Her fate is hers,” Artemis says. “And hers alone.”</p>
<p>“Stay with me,” Atalanta says.</p>
<p>Artemis hugs Atalanta closer. She stays.</p>
<p>[] [] []</p>
<p>Just before midnight.</p>
<p>That’s when Artemis fades.</p>
<p>And—</p>
<p>That’s when Medea comes.</p>
<p>She’s still wearing her black dress. Atalanta can’t make out if there are any bloodstains. If there are—is Atalanta expected to throw her out of the temple? Medea stands tall, regal, commanding in the doorway of the adyton. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows over her face.</p>
<p>It’s been so many years since she was young.</p>
<p>Looking up at Medea, Atalanta clears her throat, not trusting her voice after sitting for so long. “Is it done?”</p>
<p>Medea steps towards the base of the statue of Artemis. She sets the driftwood figure at its feet. Then she steps back. She turns towards Atalanta and looks down at her. “No. He’s not worth it.”</p>
<p>A great breath Atalanta didn’t realize she’d been holding comes out all at once. Tension finally releases its hold on her. Her head drops into her hands.</p>
<p>For a moment Medea hesitates. Then she takes a seat next to Atalanta. She crosses her legs and sets her hands in her lap. “I was going to kill the princess,” she says. “And his sons.”</p>
<p>Atalanta stiffens again. She turns to stare.</p>
<p>Medea shrugs. She stares up at Artemis’ feet. “I killed my brother for him. And left my home. I’m a foreigner here. What am I going to do with his sons?” Medea turns towards Atalanta now. She looks exhausted. “He said he’ll give us money. Does he mean to buy his children? Money can’t make up for a father.”</p>
<p>Atalanta doesn’t know what to say. Eventually, she settles on, “Where will you go now?”</p>
<p>“Creon’s given us a day. Then, the king of Athens owes me a favor,” Medea says. “I think we can stay there for a while. A few weeks, at least. I’ll figure something out after that.”</p>
<p>Atalanta is quiet for a while. Then, “Athens is a long way from here. North.”</p>
<p>“Yes. And east.”</p>
<p>“Don’t go to Athens.”</p>
<p>Medea’s reply is bitter. “There’s nowhere else.”</p>
<p>Atalanta scowls. Athens is a very long way from the Menalon. She shakes her head. “The king of Arcadia needs grandsons,” Atalanta says. “Go to Tegea.”</p>
<p>Surprised, Medea, “Tegea?”</p>
<p>“You can have my room,” Atalanta says. She offers a shrug. “Iasus won’t object. Bless the crops there or something.”</p>
<p>Medea scoffs. “You know I can’t bless crops. And where would you stay?”</p>
<p>Atalanta wrinkles her nose. “I know you’ve never tried.” Then she fixes Medea with a stare. “Don’t hurt my family.”</p>
<p>Medea lets out a short laugh, half-smile on her face. “I couldn’t hurt you.”</p>
<p>“Did you ever say that to Jason?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>This gives Medea pause. Eventually she shakes her head. “No,” she says. Anger starts to creep into her voice. “I don’t think I ever did. I don’t think he thought I ever would.” Medea’s hands ball into fists. “I still haven’t.”</p>
<p>“Hera was his patron,” Atalanta says. “She’ll punish him if you don’t.”</p>
<p>“What if she doesn’t?” Medea asks. “And he just… goes on.”</p>
<p>Not likely, Atalanta thinks. The gods are reliable in their vengeance. But. “Why does it matter?”</p>
<p>Medea doesn’t hesitate at all in her answer. She catches Atalanta’s eyes with her own and stares Atalanta down. Fire burns in her voice. “Because all of this wasn’t fair.”</p>
<p>Hm. “No,” Atalanta replies. “It wasn’t.”</p>
<p>“You’ll be remembered as a sailor on the <em>Argo</em>,” Medea says. “I’ll be remembered as Jason’s first wife.”</p>
<p>Atalanta snorts. How absurd. “I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>“I’ve never been to Arcadia before,” Medea says. “What’s it like?”</p>
<p>Mountains. Valleys. Open spaces. Forests. Not many people. “Home,” Atalanta says. A smile pulls at her lips. “I like it there.”</p>
<p>“It sounds like you would,” Medea replies. “It sounds like you.”</p>
<p>“Will you come?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Atalanta looks at Medea, not understanding. “Why?”</p>
<p>Medea shakes her head, not at Atalanta, but at herself. “Why do you offer?” she clarifies.</p>
<p>Atalanta opens her mouth to respond, but then Medea shakes her head again.</p>
<p>“Why… why are you willing to offer?”</p>
<p>Oh. That’s a harder question.</p>
<p>Atalanta shrugs. She knows that saying she doesn’t know isn’t a good enough answer. She needs to think about this.</p>
<p>Medea waits.</p>
<p>A few times, Atalanta thinks she has an answer, but then she tries to put it to words and the words aren’t right in her head. She looks up at the statue of her Lady above her. The statue looks down at her. And then, finally, she thinks she knows what she needs to say. “I…” Atalanta starts. “You matter to me. I want to take care of you.”</p>
<p>“That….” Medea pauses. For a moment it seems as though she’ll… do something. Something angry, maybe. Something against the offense that Atalanta’s offered. The presumption. Then the moment passes to calm. “I’d like that.”</p>
<p>Atalanta observes Medea. Observes the sort of confusion on her face. Observes the way her hands have relaxed in her lap. Atalanta searches for some kind of tell, some kind of signal that Medea doesn’t want what Atalanta wants. She doesn’t find one.</p>
<p>“So you’ll come?” Atalanta asks.</p>
<p>Medea nods.</p>
<p>Suddenly not trusting her voice, Atalanta smiles. Slowly, she rises to her feet. She offers Medea her hand.</p>
<p>Medea takes Atalanta's hand and smiles back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to my friends Krisslona, Deixis, and Rachel for helping out with this fic as beta readers.</p>
<p>Very briefly--<br/>This fic started when I realized that Pseudo-Apollodorus included Atalanta in his list of Argonauts in the Bibliotheca, which means that, like, there's an ancient source supporting that Atalanta and Medea would have spent several months hanging out together??? So clearly the thing to do with this revelation is write an Atalanta/Medea fic! But then I was having a conversation with a friend about Greek plays, and I mentioned I liked Hippolytus, and this fic just sort of. Totally derailed. So yeah. If you made it to the end of this fic (wow!) you're familiar with Hippolytus, you can probably see how everything went wrong.</p>
<p>Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. And if you made it to the end here without bailing, it'd be pretty sweet if you left a kudo or a comment (I'm always happy to talk Greek mythology and culture!). Stay well &amp; stay safe.</p>
<p>-Cinis</p></blockquote></div></div>
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